


The Loss of Flesh and Soul

by deuxexmycroft



Series: The Loss of Flesh and Soul [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Crossover, M/M, One-Sided Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-11-03 23:50:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 69,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deuxexmycroft/pseuds/deuxexmycroft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after John Watson puts the murderous Sherlock Holmes behind bars, a vicious copycat killer emerges. A reluctant John is pulled out of retirement to seek the expertise of the only man who can help, a man who has developed an unsettling obsession with John himself.</p><p>Crossover with Red Dragon/Silence of the Lambs</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Утратив плоть и душу](https://archiveofourown.org/works/698255) by [ph_craftlove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ph_craftlove/pseuds/ph_craftlove)
  * Translation into 한국어 available: [The Loss of Flesh and Soul](https://archiveofourown.org/works/887008) by [allison3939](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allison3939/pseuds/allison3939)



 

John Watson pressed the doorbell with a gloved finger, neatly, for about half a second. His tired face was difficult to discern in the dark night, the streetlamps too dim and foggy to be helpful, but his shape could still be made out. He was a small man, with good posture despite his fatigue, wrapped in a winter coat that could have been warmer, and a scarf that could have been less itchy.

The hall light flicked on, illuminating John's face through the frosted glass, and after a click of sliding locks, the door swung open. Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway with a politely bemused expression, his tall form still fully dressed despite the late hour. "Inspector?"

John smelt coffee and a cooked dinner on him. He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry for disturbing you so late," he began, but Sherlock interrupted him.

"It's no problem." He had a low, easy voice. He waved a pale hand vaguely towards his living room. "I was wide awake anyway. Do you want to come in?"

"If it's no trouble." John dug his hands a little deeper into his pockets. "I just want to talk."

Sherlock's sharp gaze narrowed almost imperceptively. "Of course," he said, and stepped back, holding the door open so John could step past him out of the cold. He shut it afterwards, but didn't lock it, his eyes not leaving John. "Can I take your coat?"

He hung it up in the closet under the stairs, and escorted John into his living room. A rather generously sized room, and Sherlock had -in what John now recognised as his typical magpie way- filled it up with things that interested him. It should look cluttered, but instead it looked like a cross between a library and a little antique shop. His laptop was whirring away on the coffee table, where it looked like Sherlock had been researching arachnophobia.

"For one of my clients," Sherlock explained, noticing the direction of John's stare. He dropped down onto his armchair and pulled out his violin. "Now, sit. What's on your mind?"

"So how much is this going to cost?" John joked, taking the seat opposite. 

Sherlock smiled indulgently at him. "Consider that any therapeutic benefits you get from our chat are free of charge." He plucked the strings of his violin, gently, so as not to make much noise that would disturb conversation.

"Okay," said John, smoothing down his shirt. "Well. We don't know each other very well, but we've been working on the same case for a while and I trust your input as a forensic psychiatrist." 

Sherlock smiled. "You flatter me. What is it?"

"I think … we've made a mistake," John said quietly. "We've been on the wrong track the entire time."

"Really?" replied Sherlock, not missing a beat with his fingers.

"Yes. We'd profiled the killer as someone with a grudge and a working knowledge of anatomy."

Sherlock hummed in acquiescence, and tightened one of the strings with a precise twist of thin fingers. "Given the expertise in his extraction of the body parts he was collecting, I'd suspect a doctor that had been struck off, or perhaps a med school dropout. Maybe even a dentist, or a human biology professor." He treated John to one of his unnerving smiles that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Or even a very dextrous person with a working knowledge of Google."

John felt the hairs on the back of his neck start to prickle up. He didn't let on to Sherlock, though, and raised his chin. "That's where we went wrong," he explained earnestly.

Sherlock's lips tightened. "Oh?"

"He's not collecting body parts."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Then why take them?"

"I think," John said quite evenly, "that he's eating them."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop, and Sherlock carefully replaced his violin on the stand, his armchair creaking as he sat up. "Go on," he said, pressing the fingertips of each hand together and resting them under his chin.

John huffed out a nervous breath. "It was when my girlfriend was making dinner for me." Sherlock's nose crinkled ever so slightly upwards, as it always did when John mentioned Sarah. "She was slicing up the chicken, and she said to me, 'the best part of a chicken is the oysters, on either side of the back'. And then I remembered the third victim."

Sherlock's eyelids flickered in memory. He'd seen the crime photos.

John continued, his voice surer and steadier than he felt. "She'd been missing parts on either side of her back. Sort of like the human version of oysters."

He swallowed heavily, and Sherlock's stare flicked to his throat, and then back up to his face.

"And then it hit me." John sat up a little straighter, even as Sherlock remained as frozen as a statue opposite him. "Liver, kidney, tongue, thymus. The parts that were taken from each victim, they were all parts that could be used in _cooking_."

Sherlock's face seemed to light up. He rubbed slowly at his bottom lip, eyes downcast as he thought. "Very interesting," he murmured. "This … this changes everything." He glanced back up at John, assessing. "Have you shared these thoughts with anyone?"

John shook his head. "No … I wanted to talk it out with you first. Again, sorry if I've ruined your night with all this murder talk. I know it ruined my enjoyment of Sarah's dinner."

"Oh, no, don't apologise," Sherlock said quickly, with a faraway look in his eye. "I find it fascinating." And indeed, he sat in silence for a while, obviously mulling everything over in his head.

"Sometimes I wonder if we should have switched jobs," John suggested, only half joking. "Considering the interest you take in my cases."

"I think you'll find that everyone is interested in murder, John," said Sherlock with a grin. "Besides, I'm more interested in the people behind the cases." He fixed John with his icy stare again. "On both sides."

John smile politely, although it felt stretched across his face.

"One day I'd love to have you on my couch," Sherlock mused, almost to himself. "I can't imagine the horrors lurking in that head of yours. All the things you've seen …"

"I'm not sure. Perhaps you're not as good a psychiatrist as you think you are," said John, in a rush. "You're meant to be the best, and yet although you were on this case for longer than I was, the possibility that the murderer was a cannibal never seemed to occur to you."

"What can I say?" Sherlock said, spreading his hands. "I made a mistake. I know you people like to think that what I do is magic, but in all honesty I'm as human as you are."

John paused, tentative. "You don't strike me as a man who makes many mistakes."

"I'd hate to lose your full confidence, John," said Sherlock softly. "It means a lot to me."

And then John … almost had it. 

He startled backwards, and furrowed his brows in concentration. But the thought had slipped away, and suddenly he felt exhausted.

"I'm sorry," said John, bowing his head. "It was rude of me to accuse ..." He ran a hand through his hair, and sighed. "It's late. I'm very tired and I haven't been sleeping. I'm sorry."

Sherlock silently considered him over his steepled fingers. "Go home," he said eventually. "Have a rest, and then visit me when you're feeling better. We can revise the murderers profile in light of your discovery. I'll do my best not to make any more mistakes. Is that acceptable?"

John nodded weakly. "Sounds good. Thank you, Sherlock. Sorry again for -"

"Don't mention it," said Sherlock soothingly. He got to his feet, and waved his hands downwards when John moved to rise with him. "No, no. Rest here. I'll get your coat."

He disappeared out of the room, and the space seemed suddenly larger now that he was out of it. John breathed out slowly, feeling very small. As the closet door slid open in the hallway, John buried his head in his hands. What on earth was the matter with him? Sherlock was strange, but that was no reason to …

He caught sight, in the bookshelves that dominated one wall of the room, of various recipe books. One of them had very recently been opened.

John trusted his instincts. If something caught his eye, it was nearly always worth checking out. His footsteps were drowned out by the soft carpet as he walked over, almost by reflex reaching for his phone to ring Lestrade. He dialled the number with a steady hand as he flicked through the recipe book in a section Sherlock had marked for serving pork.

The attack came out of nowhere.

John spun around in alarm to see Sherlock looming over him, a glint of steel, and then white hot spilling pain as a knife was thrust with cruel strength into his stomach. He would have screamed, but the air had been forced out of his lungs by the shock, and instead he grappled uselessly at Sherlock's wet hands.

"Shh," murmured Sherlock patiently, pressing a hand over John's gasping mouth. John tried to dislodge it but the bony hand was iron strong. "Let it happen."

There was a tearing noise of skin popping, flesh ripping, as Sherlock twisted the knife deeper into John's body. 

John stared helplessly up at the fascinated pale face above him, watching John like a cat watches mouse trapped under its paws. John was sweating already, too shocked to struggle, thinking, stupidly, that he had  _liked_  this shirt. He was in so much agony his legs started to give against his own body weight, and Sherlock let the knife slip from him and spun him around like a ragdoll, pressing him up against the bookshelves to keep him upright with his large hands on either side of John's waist, the knife resting against his side.

John could feel Sherlock's heat at his back, and on top of everything else, the strange sensation that his stomach was leaking out. He breathed deeply and tried not to sob as his lower body turned boneless.

"Ah, yes," said Sherlock, in a strangely tender voice. "Your legs are going. Don't worry, I'm strong enough for the both of us." He stroked a hand through John's hair, an intimate gesture that sent shudders through his spine. "I wish you hadn't realised my involvement, John, but it seems I underestimated your intelligence. Or perhaps I took my own for granted. Either way, you have to know, I never wanted to hurt you. But you forced my hand."

John heart was beating so fast in his chest, pumping blood uselessly out of his body to spill over Sherlock's carpet. He found himself wondering how on earth Sherlock was going to clean it all up. Would he hide the body, like he had the others? Would he eat one of John's organs? 

His vision was going blurry and bright at the edges, like a high. He felt Sherlock's fingers scraping over his scalp.

"You're remarkable," Sherlock suddenly whispered, lips right against John's ear. His breath brushed flushed skin. "I think I'll eat your heart."

"Hold it!"

Through the pain, John recognised that voice. Sherlock seemed to freeze around him, lips still pressed to John's ear, his brain whirring. Like he'd teleported in from out of nowhere, DI Greg Lestrade had his gun aimed right at Sherlock's head. John felt a huge surge of relief.

"Drop the knife, and let go of him right now," Lestrade ordered.

The red-stained knife fell to the thick carpet with a muted clatter.

Sherlock breathed slowly into John's ear as he weighed up the situation, utterly still, and then he sucked in John's earlobe to his heated tongue, mouthing at it gently in a mock kiss, before pulling away and guiding him to the floor. As John bled out at his feet, he raised his hands in surrender and smiled calmly up the barrel of the gun.

John's world darkened around him bit-by bit as he lay on the soft carpet, the blood from his stomach slowly staining everything red.

 

* * *

 

Greg Lestrade took a quick peek at the monitor to see Dr Sherlock Holmes in the interview room, surrounded by security, his hands cuffed and resting on the desk. The man looked almost bored, his eyes half-lidded, his mouth set in a frown. He was dressed in someone's t-shirt and jeans. The designer clothes he was wearing when he came in were stained with John's blood, and therefore had to be bagged as evidence.

"Are you going to talk to him, sir?" asked DS Sally Donovan, frowning.

Greg wiped a hand over his brow. "I've just come back from seeing John at the hospital," he said, and Donovan's expression grew more sympathetic. "I need to talk to that bloody Holmes before he goes to court. I need to understand."

John had looked so small in the hospital bed, fresh out of emergency surgery with his midsection heavily bandaged, his face slack but somehow not at peace. Various tubes went in and out of his body, like he was some sort of machine. Every so often his soft blond lashes had fluttered against his cheeks, and Greg would wonder if John was going to wake up.

Of course, that was impossible. John was in an induced coma, barely able to function. Sherlock had practically disembowelled him.

"You look troubled, Inspector," said Sherlock as Greg walked in, and the bastard had a smirk stretching over his lips.

Greg wished that police brutality wasn't so frowned upon. John was in pieces and Sherlock was smiling about it, safe from harm. "You're the one that should be feeling troubled, Holmes. Unless you're so cold-blooded that murder has no effect on your conscience."

He snapped the sentence fiercely, trying to hurt with words where he couldn't with his fists, but Sherlock just stared at him with his pale eyes gleaming. "How's John?" Sherlock asked, calm, as if they were having this conversation over coffee.

"What do you care?" retorted Greg, taking the seat opposite. "You tried to murder him."

"I didn't want to," said Sherlock, entwining his fingers with the scrape of handcuffs against metal table. He had a faraway look in his eye. "I like John, Inspector, but not as much as I like myself."

Of course not. Sherlock was the centre of his own delusional world.

"How is John?" Sherlock repeated, with infinite calm.

"How do you think?" Greg wanted to shout at him, but Sherlock's supremely unruffled presence somehow made Greg's every reaction seem blustering and unreasonable by comparison. "He's inches from death in a hospital bed. You nearly sliced him in two."

Sherlock slowly blinked. "Maybe I'll send him a card."

"You'll do no such thing," Greg said tightly.

"He's very smart, you know. Smarter than you, anyway." Sherlock made a point of dragging his piercing stare down Greg's body. "I think, of the two of you, little John is far more likely to make Chief Inspector."

Greg bristled, and the grin on Sherlock's face spread wider, crinkling the skin by his eyes.

"You should be grateful. I predict that John will retire, after this. Then you'd be the natural choice for promotion."

There was a loud slamming noise as Greg leapt to his feet, smashing his fist to the table to avoid smashing Sherlock's face. His shoulders heaved as he gulped down oxygen, flushed with fury, glaring at Sherlock with hatred in his eyes. "You'll go down for life, Holmes," he spat. "You think you're so superior, but you're going to live out the rest of your days in a tiny cell, getting so ragged and wrinkled you won't be a threat to anyone. And John will recover from what you did to him, and he's going to forget you. I'm going to forget you. A few years down the line and no-one will remember you."

Sherlock's pale eyes swept over Greg's tense figure, as if mentally picking him apart. "You'll think of me, most likely when you least expect it," he said slowly. "In fact, you'll have a hard time trusting new people for years to come, although perhaps you don't realise how much this will cripple you, yet. And John?" Sherlock broke off, his voice softening. "With each twinge of his wound, with every pill he has to take to stop hurting, he'll remember me. And when the years have passed by and the hole in his stomach has healed as best it can into a scar, he'll think of me whenever he sees its shape in the mirror, or feels it scrape under his clothes. He won't ever be able to forget. And as long as he's around, you won't either."

"You _wish_ -" Greg protested, but Sherlock interrupted him with much more malice in his voice.

"And when you see John, you'll remember the other victims that you didn't get there in time to save. You'll think of your own stupidity, how you failed to find the true killer. If only you'd looked a little closer, you'd have been able to save those people. And then," Sherlock 's eyes glittered. "You'll start to resent _John_."

"Shut up," snapped Greg, his heart racing too fast in his chest.

"Why didn't John have his revelation earlier?" Sherlock said, his savage delight in Greg's reaction visible in his wide grin. "Those people wouldn't have died if John had been a little quicker, a little less trusting. And soon, you won't be able to stand anywhere near him without hitting a depressive spiral that you self-medicate with alcohol. Unsuccessfully."

Greg then belatedly realised that Sherlock was deliberately working him up, with no end goal in mind but his own amusement. He was horrified that he'd let Sherlock carry on for as long as he did. The conversation was as close to a knife twisting through gut as words could get.

"I'll see you in court, Sherlock," Greg said with finality. He walked out of the room, all too aware of Sherlock's stare like daggers at his back.

 

* * *

 

Days passed quickly.

Sherlock was found guilty after a widely publicised trial, and sentenced to nine consecutive life terms in prison with no possibility of parole. He'd never get out again. Perhaps thankfully, John missed the entire media meltdown in his induced coma.

There was the endless coverage of Sherlock's involvement in his own investigation, the gruesome details of the trial, and because Sherlock's sharp features were so striking in black and white newsprint, his pictures ended up being seen everywhere. He had a knack for the pithy sound bite, and the journalists loved to hate him.

"What of your soul?" one frenzied woman had yelled as Sherlock came out of the courthouse, his slender suited figure flanked by bodyguards. "God will send you to hell for what you've done to those people!"

"God has killed billions," Sherlock had replied in a reasonable voice. "I'm sure he won't begrudge me a few measly murders."

In more vicious terms, the news turned on the Metropolitan Police Service for failing to notice that they had indirectly aided a murderer. Never mind that Sherlock had a spotless career and impeccable character references. They should have spotted it, and they hadn't. John involvement in particular was highlighted, after a tabloid journalist snuck into the hospital and got a photo of his slashed up body after another surgery. The bastards had run it on the front cover.

All of that was over by the time John had woken up, blinking blearily with eyes that hadn't seen light in far too long. For a moment, he still thought he was bleeding out on Sherlock's carpet, but a nurse was quickly there to comfort him and explain what had happened.

And, exactly as Sherlock had predicted, he soon retired from the police force.

He was propped up in his hospital bed when Greg visited, his bedside table overflowing with books and get-well-soon cards from friends and colleagues. According to the doctors he was ready to go home in another day or so, something John was probably relishing. Sarah sat by his bed as Greg came in, fussing over his pillows, and John smiled gamely but his eyes were tinged with sadness, even as he greeted the new visitor. He'd lost a lot of weight.

There was a slightly awkward feeling in the room, and Greg felt like he'd walked into an argument that had just finished.

"I'm just … too tired for it all," he said quietly, after Sarah had gently kissed him on the cheek and left to get back to work. "It's too much. You know me, Greg. To solve things, I need to put myself in the criminals shoes, I need to think like they do. And Dr Holmes …" John snapped his teeth shut, and the hand near his stomach twitched. "It's more than I can handle. I'm killing myself, trying to capture these people."

Greg remembered Sherlock's painfully accurate prediction, and glanced down at his fingers. "I think you're great at this job, John."

John looked at him for a while, and then reached over to his bedside table and pulled out a card with a defeated expression that made Greg's heart clench painfully. "Look at this," John almost pleaded, and his hand was shaking as he held out an expensively elegant get-well-soon card. "It's from him. He's trying to stay in contact with me."

Greg took it, and John's hand fell to his side. He carefully folded it open, feeling the quality of the cardstock on his thumb.

 _Sorry_ , Sherlock had written in spiky lines of black ink over the pre-printed message. _I think of you often. S._

Greg gingerly placed the card with the others, out of sight at the back. "He's got life in prison, John. He can't hurt you from there."

For some reason, it was incredibly important to Greg to prove Sherlock wrong and keep John on the force. But John shook his head, like Greg couldn't understand him. He looked miserable. "When I get out of here I'm going to formally resign. I'm sorry, Greg. You're a good friend." His eyes swept up to meet Greg's. "I hope that doesn't change after we stop working together."

"Of course not," Greg assured him quickly. "You'll always be welcome to come down with us to the pub at the end of the day. But John -"

"Greg," John interrupted, shaking his head with his eyes screwed up. He looked years older, and decades more frail. "Please."

They chatted for about half an hour before Greg had to go home. He left John with his requested newspapers of the days he'd missed, so that he could catch up. John was incredibly grateful, and gave Greg an unopened box of chocolates from one of his friends to share out around Greg's family.

"They were a gift, but I can't eat chocolate right now," John explained. "I've got a very strict diet."

Greg took it thankfully, and when John held out his hand for a handshake, Greg leant down and carefully hugged him instead. He felt softer and bonier than usual. "Look after yourself, John," he said earnestly.

"You too," John replied.

 

* * *

 

On his bunk in his glass prison, Sherlock Holmes lounged on his stomach in a white uniform, avidly reading The Herald newspaper. His skin, naturally pale before he'd even been put away, seemed almost deathly now, leeched of colour from lack of sun and barely contrasting with his clothes. His eyes flickered quickly as he read, and he rubbed his forefinger over bottom lip in thought, then licked it to turn the page.

His story still wasn't over. The latest instalment concerned the asylum's Head of Staff, Dr Culverton Smith, and his promise to publish the definitive analysis of Sherlock's case to whatever eager audience awaited it. His smug little photograph was in practically every paper, and Sherlock made a point of scratching out his face whenever he came across it, in full view of the cameras. Dr Smith should know how Sherlock felt nothing but contempt for him.

Another page turn, and then another, luxuriating and soaking himself in information of a world he was no longer allowed in. The crossword was disappointingly easy, and with that Sherlock tossed the paper aside and let it scatter across the floor, digging under his bunk for his saved tabloid.

They'd let him keep it, for some reason.

Perhaps, somewhere, Dr Smith was psychoanalysing his new-found affection (or perhaps _obsession_ ) for the only victim who had ever escaped his clutches, but Sherlock wasn't particularly bothered by the knowledge that he was being studied. He'd decided long ago to let the doctor read whatever he wanted into his exact relationship with the curious John Watson.

The front page crackled as Sherlock smoothed a reverent palm down the paper, with a dry hand, so as not to smudge the ink. His hand lingered over the front page photo, a stolen view of an impossibly vulnerable John after life saving surgery. Black and white, unfortunately, but what Sherlock wouldn't do for a full colour version…

John looked awful, objectively, but Sherlock found the photograph beautiful.

The hole Sherlock had put in him was stitched and still tender under the bandages around his middle, and his small form was seemingly stuffed with tubes. He had a temporary colostomy bag dangling inelegantly out of him after Sherlock had so ruined his gut. If it weren't for all this technology, John would be on a slab like the rest of them. Technically, Sherlock had killed him, and yet here he was, alive.

It was wonderful.

His fingers danced over the photograph, brushing over stomach, chest, and then delicately over the half tone dots that made up John Watson's cheek. He leant closer and closer until his nose touched the paper, eyes almost unfocused, and after that he didn't move for hours.

 

* * *

 

Five years later, Sherlock Holmes got a fan.

 

* * *

 

"What's this about, Greg?" asked John. He'd answered the door with the sleeves of his blue shirt rolled up, his soft hair with streaks of grey in it now, and perhaps a few more wrinkles than Greg remembered. Despite that, he looked better than Greg had ever seen him. Retiring from the police had done him a world of good.

"You're looking a lot better," Greg said over tea in John's kitchen.

John tapped his fingers against his cup, eyes downcast. "I feel a lot better," he admitted. "I think it's an inside out sort of process." Despite his apparent contentment, he looked guarded. He already suspected why Greg was here.

"How's Sarah?" Greg asked in a vain attempt to make John feel more comfortable, less used. It was the wrong question. John just replied by levelling Greg with a look that had more pity than contempt in it, before calmly taking a sip of his tea and staring out the window.

They really should have kept in touch. 

"I know why you're here," John said quietly. "I read the papers."

Greg decided to drop the small talk. "What do you know?"

"Two women killed in their homes, two months apart. The first one here in London, the other in Guildford, Surrey." John took another sip of tea. "The circumstances of the deaths were similar."

"Not similar," Greg corrected. "The same."

John glanced at him, unable to help his curiosity. "Did I miss something?"

Greg shook his head. "We're keeping the media in the dark about a few things. We haven't even told them that the murders are linked."

"So there's a definite connection?" John asked, his brows creasing together. Their tea was cooling on the side of the table now, forgotten. 

Greg pressed his lips thin and forced himself to meet John's questioning eyes. "The victims," he said carefully, "They were missing body parts."

John's expression went from curious to horrified in a second. "That's impossible," he said, eyes wide and hands clenched tightly on the table. "He's locked up, I know he is -"

He probably checked more often than was healthy.

"It's a copycat, John," Greg assured him, and John nodded, face flushed. "But I can tell you that the victims were killed on the exact same dates as Holmes killed his, with the same organs removed. That suggests the killer knows more of the case files then we ever put out in the papers."

"A very well-informed copycat," John said weakly, and he rolled his sleeves down to cover his wrists like he was getting cold. "Is he as good at the surgery?"

"No," Greg said, talking while he pulled copies of the files from his bag. "But he improved on the second victim. The cuts are still obviously amateur, but he knew what he was meant to do, like he was following instructions."

John looked faraway for a moment, and his eyelashes twitched. "A working knowledge of Google," he murmured.

"What?" asked Greg, but John just waved for him to continue, and Greg obliged. "We've got his shoe size, a size nine, and we know he's very good at picking locks."

John went a little pale, rubbing the side of his head. "Why do that?" he asked after a prolonged pause. "Why copy Sherlock's murders so carefully?"

"I don't know," Greg said tactfully, pushing the files towards John. "You're the one with the emotional insight."

John let out a humourless chuckle, then breathed out and pinched the bridge of his nose. "It doesn't work like that." He sat back with a tired sigh. "I don't want to get involved."

Greg stared at him, then nodded and regretfully pulled the files back. "I understand."

John seemed a lot smaller now, the almost carefree air he'd had when Greg had first arrived completely vaporised. He dragged his teacup closer and lifted it carefully to his lips, but put it down without taking a sip. It had long gone cold.

"Look, John, we have to meet up at some point," Greg said, awkwardly trying to stuff the files in his bag as John stared at him with his sad eyes. "You can come around some time and have dinner with the wife and me."

It was an empty gesture. John would nod politely now, but he wouldn't call, and Greg wouldn't be the one to start the conversation. It was just a promise to assuage Greg's guilt, so that he could say to himself that he'd done something after coming to John's house and making him relive the experience that had broken him.

John escorted him to the door. There was a collection of birthday cards on a mantelpiece in the hallway, and Lestrade froze when he saw it. Another thing he'd forgotten.

John's expression was kind. "It's okay, Greg."

"No, John," Greg sighed. He hung his head. "I'm a shit friend, you know."

"You are," said John mildly, fiddling about with the cards. His hands paused over a shell-blue one, and he paused, his mouth tightening. He turned back to Greg. "I'll look at it."

"Really?" exclaimed Greg, ruffling through his bag for the files.

"Yes." John held out his hands and took them, smoothing over the covers. "I just need to get the mind-set back first."

 

* * *

 

Greg stayed with him in the living room in silence as John went over the thoroughly documented evidence. He sat curled on the sofa, his feet tucked under his body with the papers spread out over his lap, occasionally asking Greg for clarification. But even after all that, he still looked lost. He had no new ideas.

"How did you figure out Holmes?" prompted Greg, after John started to look defeated again.

"I didn't," said John absently. Then he looked up. "I mean, I had a suspicion, for that moment when I called you. But you know, I probably wouldn't have done anything if he hadn't attacked me." John frowned, and stared somewhere past Greg's shoulder. "He think's I'm smarter than I actually am."

Greg nodded thoughtfully, and John's eyes narrowed.

"What?"

"Maybe …" Greg started, wringing his hands together. "Maybe he's a resource we could use."

John blinked rapidly at him, completely dazed. "You're joking, right?" he asked.

"He's good at this sort of stuff," Greg argued. "He's helped me solve all sorts of crimes before he was put away."

John's expression darkened. "Talk to him yourself," he retorted, flipping through the papers to organise the files.

"He won't talk to me. He doesn't talk to anyone."

An unspoken, _anyone but you_ , hung in the air. John stood quickly, and Greg hurried to stand with him. "Is that what all this was about?" John asked, almost disbelieving. "A long-winded way of getting me to talk to your crime-solving machine?"

"You don't have to." He felt an irritable pang of guilt at John's crumpling expression. "If there was any chance he'd talk to me, I'd do it. But there isn't, and the next murder is scheduled to be in four days, and I'm running out of options. Do you trust me?"

"Of course," said John, in a rush of honesty. "You saved my life."

Greg nodded, trying to hide his surprise at John's vehement answer. "Then trust me when I say that if there were any other solution, I wouldn't even suggest it."

John's eyes shimmered and he blinked, licked his lips, and his arms dropped limply to his sides. He was still holding the case files. Greg found he was holding his breath as the seconds counted by.

"Alright," John said eventually, his voice almost cracking. "I'll do it."

 

* * *

 

After an hour long train journey to Berkshire, John found himself in the Chief of Staff's rather well-decorated office, seated across the man himself. He shifted uncomfortably on his chair, his polite smile fading as Dr Culverton Smith recounted Sherlock's past at the institution. He was a rather smarmy little man. John instantly felt a dislike towards him, but he kept his manner as neutral as possible.

"I remember being so excited when he first came in," Culverton sighed. "I've never been able to study anything like him before. But he's simply impenetrable to any testing."

"He's a psychiatrist himself, doctor," John pointed out. "He probably knows the tests backwards."

"Yes," murmured Culverton, rubbing at his jaw as he stared over John. "He does. That's the problem, you see, he's too sophisticated for proper analysis. And he hates me, of course." Culverton looked morosely at Sherlock patient file that was spread over his desk. "Constantly expressing how useless he thinks I am." He glanced up at John. "But, _he's_ the one in the straitjacket, mm?"

John's composure was beginning to feel stretched.

"Now, _your_ visit, that's something very exciting indeed," said Culverton. "He certainly hasn't forgotten you."

"I've noticed," said John, carefully calm.

"I'm very interested in any insight you might have to his character." Culverton laced his fingers together, and leaned towards John like a conspirator. "You see, I'm writing a book -"

"I try not to think about Sherlock Holmes's character, doctor," interrupted John with a tight smile. "But I'd like to get back home some time before midnight, and I don't see how any of this is of use to my investigation."

Culverton sat back, expression turning sour. "What you want to know before you meet him is that Sherlock cares about nothing but his own amusement." He started flipping through the file. "Once, he complained of chest pains, so we sent him to get an electrocardiogram. He's lying there, pulse showing on the monitor as seventy-two, and he _grabs_ the nurse, and does this to her face." A photograph was thrust forward, and reflexive nausea clenched John's stomach. Culverton looked oddly pleased at his reaction as he slid it back. "The entire time, his pulse never goes above eighty-five."

John swallowed. He felt sweaty under his clothes. Culverton's eyelids lowered.

"Follow me, Mr Watson."

John was led down various corridors, feeling increasingly trapped with each clanging steel gate. Culverton paced in front of him with short but fast steps, talking loudly as they went.

"Mr Holmes will be in his room when you meet him. It's the only place he isn't in full body restraints, and so the place where he has most freedom of movement. There is a sliding carrier so you can pass him things, but only soft paper. Don't pass him a pen, he has charcoal in his room for writing."

They entered an even grimmer area. John stared around. He could hear distant noises of the hospital, slamming metal, harsh buzzers and raucous voices. Large orderlies patrolled the corridors, and some had mace, or even tranquilizer guns. They looked at John with interest as he passed them.

Culverton wound to a stop by a staff member in the anteroom, who was watching the monitors of the cells.

"Dimmock!" he barked.

"Yes sir?" said Dimmock, spinning around in his chair with wide eyes.

"Let Mr Watson out when he's done." And with one last glance at John, Culverton's short figure disappeared back down the corridor.

John turned to Dimmock, and they introduced themselves. "You'll be okay," Dimmock said with a small smile, perhaps sensing John's tension. He gestured to one of the monitors with a chair waiting outside the cell. "I'll be watching."

 

* * *

 

John wished he'd worn his trainers as the clip of his dress shoes echoed sharply down the corridor. He heard muttering from the inmates down the row of cells to his left, but kept his eyes fixed on the solitary chair in front of him and hurried towards it, but not so fast as to appear panicked.

Sherlock Holmes, John had been told, was in a special cell at the end.

Instead of bars, the front was tough glass with breathing holes. Apparently Sherlock used to have a nasty habit of grabbing at staff through the bar spaces and biting them in his old cell, so this one had been designed to block off all contact. As Culverton had said, there was a slider box near the end so things like food and paperwork could be passed to him. It was all incredibly secure, but the lack of an obvious barrier made John nervous. From certain angles the cell looked like it had no front at all.

Sherlock lay motionless on his bunk, his head towards the front of the cell, not even twitching a finger as John seated himself on the chair and put the case file on his lap. Something for Sherlock to get curious about.

"I suppose Lestrade thinks he's very clever." Sherlock sounded amused. His eyes were still closed. "Sending you, that is. Tell me, is it true that they promoted Gregson ahead of him as Chief Inspector?"

"They did," said John quietly.

Sherlock chewed over this new bit of information, then he let out a long breath. "Pity. He was so ambitious when he was younger," he mused. "Then again, so were you."

 _Don't let him get in your head_ , John firmly reminded himself, and he bit his lip and didn't reply.

In his bunk, Sherlock's slender white-clad form sat up and stretched luxuriantly like a cat, before he got to his feet and paced towards the glass. He seemed impossibly toned for a man who was cramped up all day, with barely any room to move, but maybe they exercised him. Or maybe Sherlock just worked out using his own body weight. He'd always liked to keep himself in condition.

Sherlock's eyes gleamed when he caught sight of John, whole again, his first real sighting of the man since the messy end of their last collaboration. He leant with casual elegance on the glass of his cell, in order to look John thoroughly up at down like he was some sort of dessert. Then again, in Sherlock's twisted mind, he probably was.

John kept his head high and stared evenly back.

"Why don't you drag that uncomfortable-looking chair of yours a bit closer?" Sherlock suggested.

"I'm alright where I am, thanks," John replied.

"I like your outfit." Sherlock peered a little closer, lingering on the button at John's throat. "Button-down shirt, nicely fitted jeans and a soft woollen cardigan. You look almost harmless." His eyes dropped to John's feet. "Fancy shoes. I could hear you clicking down the corridors. Is this a date, John?"

John held Sherlock's look with difficulty, blinking hurriedly like his eyes were hurting.

"You've barely aged," said Sherlock softly, tilting his head. "I'm so glad you came to see me. Mostly I get visits from second-rate psychologists who trained at bad universities. Dull, idiotic amateurs, the lot of them."

"Or Dr Smith," added John, and Sherlock huffed a laugh.

"Isn't he repulsive? Nothing but a caricature of a psychiatrist, prodding and poking for a reaction like a hog snuffling through mud for truffles." Sherlock narrowed his eyes, still no less sharp than they'd been when he was first locked away. If anything, he was even more all-seeing. "Did he show you the photo of Nurse Leighton?"

John inclined his head, feeling sick at the memory. Sherlock scoffed.

"He shows it to everyone. He loves telling the story. It makes him feel important."

"He's not the one who ripped her face off with his teeth," snapped John, his hands wrapped into fists.

Sherlock smiled, but didn't reply. He breathed in deeply, chest rising, and shut his eyes. "You smell delicious under that cheap shampoo, John. Tell me, did you get my birthday cards?"

"I got them," said John, voice tight in his throat. "You don't have to keep sending them, you know." He was getting wound up. His chest hurt when he breathed, and it was difficult to stay calm with Sherlock looming over him in his glass cage. He didn't want Sherlock to know how nervous he was, but from the way Sherlock was looking at him John suspected his every move was being read like a book.

"Your palms are softer, but you have a callus over the distal phalange of your left middle finger" Sherlock said, fascinated, his eyes fixed on John's fingers clutching over the case files. "You're a writer these days, long hand as opposed to typing."

John took hold of the file, and Sherlock's eyes flickered over it. "I want you to help me with a case."

A pleased smile slowly spread over Sherlock's face. "Ah," he said, his voice a satisfied rumble. "Yes. My tribute act."

John was surprised. "You already know about the link?"

"Don't be stupid, John. Of course I do." Sherlock pushed himself off the glass and started pacing, hands under his chin. "I had my suspicions after the discovery of the first body. The second confirmed it." He froze, and fixed John with a stare. "You want to know why he's choosing them."

John nodded. "I thought you would have some ideas."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "And why should I tell you?"

"I could speak to Dr Smith about reinstating any privileges you might have lost," John offered. Sherlock just raised an eyebrow, and John sat forward. "I'll let you follow this case, and when it's over I could send a few cold ones in for you to have a go at solving."

"Tedious," Sherlock sighed, rolling his head back. His dark hair fell back from his forehead, and John could see the pale shapes of his angular profile.

"There is another thing," John added, as if in afterthought. Sherlock's eyes fixed onto him. "By doing this, you can find out if you're smarter than the person we're looking for."

Sherlock levelled him with a searching stare. "Using that logic, you think you're smarter than me."

John shook his head, smoothing over the edges of the case file with his eyes downcast. "No," he said sincerely. "I know I'm not."

Sherlock leant on the glass again, peering down at him intently. "As flattering as it is to hear you saying these things, John, don't think you'll persuade me to perform favours for you with appeals to my intellectual vanity."

" I'm beginning to doubt I'll persuade you at all," said John. Sherlock stared flatly back, and John racked uselessly at his brain. "What if I told you about the victims -"

"I don't _know_ them," Sherlock interrupted. "Why should I care about their deaths? Why does everyone think I should care about the fates of people who might as well not exist, as far as I'm concerned?" He froze, breaking off mid-rant, his posture stiffening as if something unpleasant had just occurred to him. John watched in confusion as Sherlock began to pace. "Victims…" Sherlock repeated, touching his fingers to his lips. He stopped, and swerved to face John. "I must ask," he said. "Have you considered the end point of this killer's game?"

John straightened his back, unsure of himself. "The end is when we've caught him?"

" _If_ ," Sherlock corrected, and his faraway gaze turned piercing. "You might not manage. And, of course, you remember how _my_ game ended. "

Realisation slipped through John like a knife through soft innards as he caught on to what Sherlock was suggesting. "You think the killer's going to come after me?" he exclaimed.

"Finish what I started …" Sherlock muttered against his fingers. "Interesting."

John stood, causing a loud scrape as the chair skidded back over concrete. He turned to go, and Sherlock stared at him, eyes wild.

"Wait!" Sherlock went over to the slider box, and pushed it onto John's side with a clang. "Pass it over," he ordered. "Let me look at it and I'll tell you what I think."

There was something agitated about him. John paused, half-turned away already, and took in Sherlock's expectant face. He didn't want to be here. He'd rather be anywhere else, but he had a job to do. "You need to give it back afterwards," he said, and Sherlock rolled his eyes and nodded his head.

"Yes. Obvious. Now hand it over."

John stepped closer to the cell, keeping his eyes fixed on Sherlock. They were less than a metre apart for the first time in five years, separated only by sheet of glass that might as well not be there for all the feeling of security it gave John. He placed the file in the box, conscious of Sherlock's greedy stare down the back of his neck.

"Wonderful," said Sherlock softly, almost too quietly for John to hear.

John stepped back, eyeing Sherlock warily through the glass. Sherlock slid the box into the cell and took out the file, flicking through it with dextrous fingers. He walked as he read, his brows furrowed.

John felt more comfortable when out of his razor-sharp line of attention. "Do you want some privacy?" he asked, and Sherlock glanced over at him for a split second.

"On the contrary," he said, waving at the chair. "Take a seat. Your presence does wonders for my thought processes."

Slightly dazed, John obediently sat down, mulling over exactly how to take that particular comment as Sherlock tore through the case file like a computer processor. "He takes the body parts like you did," John said, as Sherlock flipped dispassionately through photographs. "In fact, the cases are far too similar to be a normal copycat. He's got information." Sherlock didn't acknowledge him, and after a few minutes John spoke up again. "Do you think he eats the parts too?"

"Shush," muttered Sherlock. "Talking isn't necessary." And he made John sit in silence for almost an hour.

 

* * *

 

"I would like to talk about the victims," said Sherlock, alerting John from where he'd been drifting off on the uncomfortable chair.

"Oh?" John answered, sitting up straight. He stretched his back, and checked his watch. "I thought you didn't care about -"

"Not their hopes and dreams and grieving faceless families, or whatever," scoffed Sherlock. He'd been standing or pacing the entire time, moving as actively as he thought. "Think of them as inanimate. I want to talk about their significance, particularly in comparison with mine."

"Well …" John started, his mind blank. He scrunched up his face. "They're younger. And he's killing women where you killed men."

"Look at them, John!" Sherlock exclaimed, waving a portrait of the first victim that had been given to them by the family. "They're young. They're _beautiful_. He's killing what he covets, what he desires. He probably molests their dead bodies, although he wouldn't be stupid enough to take off his gloves. Whereas _I_ ," he paused, his lips twitching at the edges. "I just had a taste."

"You said you killed the terminally stupid," John pointed out.

Sherlock just wiped his teeth with a forefinger, and smirked at him.

John swallowed thickly. "Look, this is all very interesting, but I need something practical."

"These girls aren't very computer literate," observed Sherlock, wiggling his fingers.

"Sherlock …"

Sherlock snapped the file shut. He chucked it into the slider box and slammed it back over. John flinched. "The girls are unimportant to his message. He's just getting something he wants while he performs his _real_ task."

John blinked, got to his feet. "Is imitation a message?"

"The most basic kind." Sherlock answered, with no further explanation. "Have you wondered how he knows that they'll be alone in their apartments when he plans to kills them? Alone on a certain day, at that?"

"Right, because it's no use killing them if it's on a different day to you," John said, nodding. "I'm not sure. He probably just cases them out."

"What an original thought," remarked Sherlock drily, finally giving his leg muscles a rest and rolling onto his bed. He looked quite relaxed, while John ached all over from the plastic chair digging into his body.

He collected the case files, keeping his eye on Sherlock's long stretched-out figure.  "Is that all you've got?"

"For now," said Sherlock. "I think I've given you plenty of clues to get started. If I get any more ideas I'll let you know." His expression seemed to sharpen, and he flashed a quick smile. "Perhaps a home number, so I can contact you directly."

John felt his stomach lurch. He met Sherlock's eyes. "I'd rather you were straight with me now."

Sherlock scoffed. "I'm not going to spell everything out for you, John. And goodness knows your little brain needs some exercise after it's enforced _hiatus_." He hissed the word. "Bring more evidence whenever you get it."

"You think I'm coming back here?" John asked.

"Of course." Sherlock said it easily, like he could just demand John to do whatever he wanted. "If it's not you, I'm not interested."

John felt trapped, a tight feeling prickling up his chest at the thought of coming back here again and again. "Why?"

"Consider it my payment." Sherlock lazily rolled his head to the side, digging his toes into the blanket like a cat. "I'm not taking anything else from you, John. I just want your company while I work on this. I sorely missed seeing your face for the last five years."

"I can't say the feeling is mutual," John said quietly. He saw Sherlock smile.

"I like you, John," he said, eyes dipping shut. "You don't try to analyse me."

"The only person capable of analysing you is yourself," replied John, and with that he walked away on his too-loud shoes.


	2. Chapter 2

John Watson arrived at CID first thing the next morning, hands in his pockets and coat collar tucked up over the back of his neck against the cold. He was neatly dressed and put-together with his usual military posture, but the soft sleepiness of his eyes betrayed his exhaustion. Sally Donovan waited by reception to meet him, and he smiled when he saw her, mostly out of courtesy. They'd never been the firmest of friends.

Sally stuck a smile on her face in return. "DI Lestrade told me to get you into his office," she said, escorting him through the building. John followed her, but he could have made his way by memory. He glanced around every so often to clock details that had changed. "Did you get anything useful out of Holmes?"

John's smile faltered. "Nothing concrete," he admitted, and Sally felt selfishly vindicated. She tried to shake those thought away, there were bigger goals ahead for them, but it was difficult not to get pleasure from the fact that Holmes wasn't as useful as everyone made him out to be.

"Lestrade seems to think that murderer is going to help us," she said, and then reached out to press a button for the lifts. John waited patiently beside her, his expression guarded as she continued. "I just think we're wasting time. Holmes likes us running around to do what he tells us. He finds it funny. We're bugs to him, John."

John regarded her carefully, then glanced at his feet. "I remember you saying similar things when we were working with him before."

Sally inwardly winced at the memory. "Everyone called me paranoid. I know I was proven right, but even when it was over, I still couldn't bring myself to say 'I told you so'."

Especially not to the broken body that she visited in hospital, with a mangled gut and sad eyes. John had definitely gotten the worst deal out of the betrayal. Her face reddened, and she didn't continue the conversation. John didn't push the point. He had no more desire to think back to there than she did.

They rode the lift upwards in tense silence.

 

* * *

 

John found himself in the middle of CID for the first time, not as a copper, but as a witness. The nostalgic familiarity he felt at being back in a place where he'd worked for years jarred at the differences. It set him on edge. Then again, he hadn't been completely himself since Berkshire and Sherlock's unsettlingly wide smiles.

He sat in Greg's office as the inspector flipped through John's transcript of his and Sherlock's conversation, his initially excited mood at John's arrival slowly tempering down into something frustrated. It was disheartening to watch him come to the same conclusions as John over the ambiguity of Sherlock's answers.

Eventually, Greg dropped the paper back onto the table and kicked back in his seat with a frown. "He's not usually so cryptic," he sighed. "Usually he's leaping to tell you what he knows.

John nodded. His posture was straight, apprehensive despite himself. "I don't know what to make of it. He said a lot, but its all riddles." John paused meaningfully and licked his lips. "He might know more than he's letting on."

Greg scratched at the back of his head, eyes narrowed. "Like the killer is communicating with him?"

"He's implying it."

John had no idea how on earth murder could be used as a communication tool, and given Greg's matching expression, he didn't either. They quickly jumped subjects.

"And he said something about the computer skills of the victims." John had to pull the paper towards him, reading it over to remember the exact wording. "Something about their fingers suggesting that they weren't very technical people. I don't know how he got that, but might be a link, or how the killer is choosing them. Have we got their computers?"

Greg nodded, perking up now. "We've got access to everything. What should I tell forensics to look out for?"

"Get a list of the similarities between them." John felt himself slipping back into copper mode. Something might come out of this. "There has to be a crossover."

"Right," Greg agreed. He sat forward eagerly. "Then you can take the list to Holmes."

John's head swung up so quickly that Greg reacted like he'd heard a whip crack. "What?"

"Well," Greg started, startled. "He did give us a new lead. Maybe he could get us more."

"We don't even know if it _is_ a lead yet," argued John, his panic overriding his first instinct to be polite. "We don't even know if he's actually on our side. I'm not going back there unless I have to."

Greg's large brown eyes flickered over John, mouth moving silently before he bowed his head and avoided John's gaze. "Right. I'm sorry."

John sat back, breathed an almost unnoticeable sigh. "I don't want to be difficult. But I'm not … ready. Mentally, I mean."

Sherlock's obsession with him was obvious and worrying. John had no idea how he hadn't picked up on it before, given that they'd worked together, sometimes alone and secluded while pouring over evidence, during many difficult cases. Sherlock, whilst slightly eccentric, never did anything that frightened him. The Sherlock he'd met in prison took every ounce of courage to stay calm in front of while inside his body betrayed him, heart beating faster and skin starting to sweat.

"I understand," Greg said, even though he had no idea. John accepted it anyway, grateful for the attempt at understanding. His scar started to itch across his abdomen.

Greg had after all done his best to be considerate. Last evening, John had called Greg as soon as he was back on the train heading home from Berkshire, and with a carefully understated manner relayed what had happened. He'd felt flayed to the bone after so long in Sherlock's company, and Greg, picking up on the strain in John's voice, had all but ordered him to get some sleep and deliver his report in the morning.

These people were on John's side. They were all together, trying to catch that maniac.

"If we need to consult him, I'll go," John offered. "But I'm talking last resort here."

"Right," said Greg. "No, that's great, John. You've been really helpful already." His voice was so sincere. They both stood and shook hands, Greg almost careful as if afraid of snapping John's metacarpals. "Do you need anyone to escort you out?"

"I'll be fine," John assured him, squeezing Greg's hand firmly and then dropping it. "Keep me updated."

"Of course." Greg flashed him a smile that was newly hopeful in light of new evidence, and strode out of the room to order his team about. John followed with something like caution and tried to keep his head down before he was roped in any further. He wanted to go home, lie down, and work on his new story.

He was pulling on his coat when a large hand clapped over his shoulder. It was DCI Toby Gregson, with a friendly twinkle in his eye. The newly promoted DCI Gregson was a tall man, solidly built, with a forceful personality that John had seen snap from affability with witnesses to putting the fear of god in suspects. Right now, he was being nice.

Perhaps it was uncharitable, but John felt like he'd been trapped.

"John," said Toby jovially, like they'd just bumped into each other at the pub. "It's good to see you, how are you?"

"Fine," replied John with a quick smile. "I've been alright. Resting."

Toby took a quick look around to see his team at work, and then he smiled back at John. "Why don't you come and have a chat with me in my office?"

John had a faint idea of what this was about. "I'm a bit busy, actually …" he lied.

"Five minutes," Toby promised, and ignoring any protestations he guided John into a well-lit office with large windows and comfy modern furniture.

"Look," said John, after he'd all but been pushed into a seat and had a mug of tea put in his hands. "I know what this is about, and I'm not interested."

Toby sat across from him, and took a sip of his own tea. He didn't insult John's intelligence and went straight to the point. "I could do with a senior officer like you back with us, John. We all could."

John shook his head, and carefully put the mug down on a coaster. "You don't need me. I'm no use to the police anymore."

"How about I decide what's useful and what isn't?" Gentle, yet immovable pressure. It was like a soft push at his spine to move him in the right direction. Toby had such a placid voice when he was telling people what to do. "I haven't got a man up here like you, John. How you played the Holmes thing yesterday …" Toby broke off with a low whistle. "I wish I could have seen it."

John hadn't played Sherlock. On the contrary, their conversation had been entirely on Sherlock's terms. "I like the life I've got now," he said firmly, in an effort to draw the conversation to a close. "That last case I was on near killed me. I don't want to go through that again with this one."

"You look fine to me," said Toby reasonably. "It's been near five years."

"I am fine," replied John with a touch too much defensiveness. He stared at the cooling tea, cheeks flushed.

"Then you should be back doing what you do best." Toby leant back in his seat with a creak, running a neatening thumb under his blazer lapel. "There are pathways in the Metropolitan Police that can get you back to work very easily, and with great benefits. You don't have to do anything, I'll sort everything out for you. Just do everyone a favour and work on this case for us."

John hesitated with replying, and Toby spoke up again.

"We have two days until the next girl dies, John," he all but pleaded. "We need your help."

The photos flashed through John's mind in an impression of bloody cuts, and he winced. Deep down, something inside him was begging, pleading, to be left alone, to leave now and recover before something in his mind broke from the strain of it all.

But if John could do something about these murders …

He swallowed his own fears and met Toby's steely eyes. "Alright," he said. "But I need to get up to speed with everything. I need to see the crime scenes for myself."

"Of course." Toby looked relieved. "I'll get Lestrade to take you. Anything you need, John, knock on my door."

 

* * *

 

Whenever they tied Sherlock down to clean his cell, Dr Culverton Smith would pop in to try and get a reaction out of him. Or, as he liked to see it, 'psychoanalyse' him. The man really was ridiculously simplistic. Sherlock pitied the mental health system if a man like this was in charge of a psychiatric hospital.

Culverton brought with him Sherlock's letters, all open and read by him already, from a wide variety of boring idiots who thought they were unique, or journalists looking to stir up a story.

"There's a lot of messed up little ladies sending you letters, Sherlock," remarked Culverton, sitting down on his cot and flicking through them with pompous throwaway gestures. "Thinking they can change you. Into what? A vegetarian?" He laughed at his own stupid joke.

Sherlock never replied to his admirers. All the letters seemed to blend into each other after a while, but he read them when he was bored all the same. His mouth started to ache, so he stretched his jaw against the muzzle-like mask that kept his teeth from anyone's face in a caricature of a yawn, then snapped his teeth together. The sound made Dimmock jump as he mopped the floor in front of him.

"But then," Culverton remarked with a sly grin. "It's not exactly women that flick your switch, is it Sherlock?"

Of course. Typical Culverton. Take one isolated reaction and apply it across an entire gender. Sherlock's mood, not at its best already, quickly turned foul in the presence of such idiocy.

"They all know about it, you know," Culverton continued. Sherlock wished he could just turn his head away. "Your _obsession_ with that little ex-copper. I was so interested to meet him, but he really was quite ordinary, if a bit broken. I'm not sure about his appeal, myself."

He said it like Sherlock was meant to be insulted, and waited for a reaction that Sherlock wasn't going to give. In truth, Sherlock would have been more insulted if Culverton _liked_ John Watson.

"People have done analyses on your weird little crush. There've even been articles."

He sounded slightly jealous, and Sherlock knew exactly why. "Your book has been rejected from yet another publisher," he said flatly, and Culverton first jumped at the reply, but then his expression turned stony.

"It wouldn't be if you opened up to me a little," he snapped.

Sherlock sighed, disappointed. "I have no interest in providing you with any extra credibility or money."

The staff kept cleaning, firmly keeping their heads down against the bitter atmosphere in the room.

Then Culverton, his gaze fixed on Sherlock, very deliberately reached down and dragged out Sherlock's picture of John. Sherlock jerked towards him, but he couldn't budge an inch in his bonds. That made Culverton grin.

"I hope you got a good enough look when he visited, Dr Holmes," Culverton sneered. "I'll be taking this with me."

And Sherlock's foul mood turned _murderous_.

 

* * *

 

Halfway between the coffee machine and his office with a cup of strong black coffee, Greg was halted by the large hand of DCI Toby Gregson clamping down on his shoulder.

"Lestrade. I need you to show John Watson around the crime scenes," said Toby, with a worryingly purposeful glint in his eye. He nodded over his shoulder to where John was sitting in his office, staring blankly out the window and barely moving but to breathe. Like he'd been tied to that chair a prisoner and was now wearily resigned to his fate.

Greg frowned and shifted a little straighter. He wasn't sure this was a good idea, and the creeping feeling uncomfortably like guilt knocked away at his stomach. "John's on the case?"

Toby nodded. He looked, Greg couldn't help but notice, quietly pleased with himself.

"How on earth did you convince him to do that?" Greg's voice was an uneasy half-laugh. "When we spoke, he was all but running out of the building."

Toby shrugged easily. He'd always been good at persuading people. "Just remember, Lestrade," he said seriously, peering at Greg from under low brows. "Watson 's involvement is very important to this investigation, so try not to scare him off. Just let him do his thing."

Greg narrowed his eyes. "Important?" he asked, and then Toby just looked impatient.

"Oh yeah. He's essential." Toby raised his eyebrows. "Remember, if we have Watson, we have access to someone very useful indeed."

Greg swallowed bitterly, and repressed a shudder. "Sherlock Holmes," he said reluctantly.

"Sherlock Holmes." Toby said it with satisfaction. He slapped Greg on the shoulder again, palm warm through suit fabric, and gave him a pointed stare. "Keep John with us, Lestrade, no matter what. Now, get going."

 

* * *

 

It was a quiet journey down south to Guildford in the wet and rain.

Greg was driving, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel every so often like he was tapping out a tune. Occasionally he would cast concerned glances at his passenger, who had started the day alert and eager to help, but who now seemed rather pale. John had been closed-off ever since the first crime scene.

John spent most of the journey staring out the window at the expanses of grey, eyes flickering over concrete, sky, clouds, the glint of Greg's silver car. The effect of the rain, heavy over the windscreen in wet taps, had a soporific effect on his mood. He concentrated on the spidering lines of water that crawled across the windows in an attempt to forget the red stains that splattered the apartment walls in London.

It was the wrong thought to have. Right in front of John's eyes there was a splat as rainwater hit glass, and all John could see was wet blood smacking into wallpaper, then the image of a young woman with a butchered body. He took a deep breath and cringed away to stare at his hands. Greg was already looking over in concern.

"Are you alright?"

John balled his hands up into fists until it ached up his arms. "When did I get so soft?" he asked, half laughing, half through gritted teeth.

Greg 's eyes were soft and understanding, or at least attempting to understand. He should be paying more attention to the road. "You've been away from the job for a long time," he said reasonably. "And you've seen more then most men ought to."

John nodded, rubbing a thumb over the dry skin at the back of his hand. He didn't look convinced.

"Want to listen to some music?" Greg asked in a more jovial tone, but John shook his head.

"I'm not really in the mood." He blinked up at Greg. "I mean, you can if you want -"

"No, it's alright." Greg smiled politely, although he couldn't hide the worry in his eyes. After a few strained minutes he spoke up again. "Look, John. It's really great, you know. You, doing this."

John ducked his head again. "Well," he said, with a cough. "If it's in my power to help …"

"I feel a bit bad, sometimes. I know we drifted apart after you retired, and I don't want you to think we're using you --"

"Greg," said John quietly, tiredly. "It's fine."

The rain was heavier and the sky darker when they pulled up outside the apartment of the second victim. Greg had an umbrella, so he leapt out first and swung it open before moving to John's side. They made it inside mostly dry.

"Key?" asked John, looking a bit skittish, and Greg just waved the folder at him with a grin.

The victim lived on the second floor, and they tramped up the stairs together. It was a nice apartment building, John thought. Roomy. High ceilings.

"Do you think its part of the killer's method?" John asked, as Greg fiddled with the lock. "Both murders have been in the victim's homes."

"How so?" Greg paused, his hand on the door handle.

John flapped the file in his hands and licked at his dry lips. "Maybe," he suggested, "there's something in his method that means he can only strike out when the victim's at home."

Greg nodded shortly. "Yeah, maybe," he said, mouth slightly open. "Is that what Sherlock said?"

John repressed a flinch at the name. God, he was being pathetic. "He mentioned something about computers, remember?"

"Right." Greg looked back to the door, then cautiously towards John. "This is the same as last time. Police and forensics have already been through here and gotten everything they needed to get. If you start feeling uncomfortable -"

"I'll be okay," said John, a little sharply. He was shaky and on edge already. With a shudder despite the warm hallway, John shoved his hands into his pockets.

Greg stared at him, then inclined his head and opened the door of the apartment.

The lights were off, plunging the apartment into darkness. Their shadows cast by the hall lamps spilt onto dark carpets, over a stand with an untouched jumble of winter boots, gym shoes and high heels. She had a soft grey winter coat hanging up by the door, a delicate spider's web stringing from the fluffy cuff to the patterned wallpaper. John felt a tug at his heart, and he reached forward, breaking the strand with a touch of his forefinger and brushing gently over the fur. Beside him, Greg struggled with the flickering beam of the flashlight.

"Where are the damn light-switches …"

There was a click, and the room was flooded with light. Greg shut the door behind them, and John stood back, taking in their surroundings. It was a nice apartment, if a little untidy. The front door opened into the living and dining room area, which was joined with a kitchen with dishes still stacked up in the sink. There was a slouchy couch, a coffee table in front of the TV with cup-rings all over the surface, a couple of gossip magazines. She'd covered her windowsills with ornaments.

"This way," said Greg, a hand on John's shoulder.

"Hang on," said John. "Remind me, what time was she killed?"

"Uhh …" Greg flipped through his file. "Pathologist put time of death at seven-thirty in the evening."

An unusual time for a stranger murder, thought John, but then again, nothing in this case was usual. She'd have just finished dinner. She'd probably have been lounging around watching telly or something. So why had she been killed in her bedroom? Trying to escape from her attacker? As Greg led the way, John mentally crossed that option off. The door was unmarked and bore no signs of forced entry.

Greg swung open the door and John was assaulted yet again by the sight of red splashed over the walls, floors and the rumpled quilt like a particularly morbid abstract art. He blinked, tired already, and stepped in.

"He took her kidneys," Greg was saying as he paced by the white tape outlining where the body had been found slung over the mattress. "Only after stabbing her multiple times with one of her own kitchen knives. We found it the first time we entered the apartment. He'd put it back in the knife block." Greg swallowed thickly, remembering that particular surprise. "No prints, of course, but one running theme of this guy is that he leaves almost no trace of himself behind anywhere."

Like the partial footprint, size nine, in blood on the floor. John noted all the details he'd picked up in the case files and walked further into the small bedroom, carefully sidestepping spilt blood. Greg flipped through some pages behind him.

"She was found the next day after a friend couldn't get her to answer the phone, and when we came along we recognised the similarities to the Holmes case straight away." Greg inhaled slowly, and shook his head. "That moment of realisation was terrifying."

John glanced at where the girl's laptop had been sitting open on the desk at the corner of her room, before forensics had taken it away for tests. The chair was pulled out. He stepped closer, as though drawn to the space, with the strangest sensation that something incredibly important was just now eluding him. It teased on the edges of his mind like a movement at the corner of his eye. Visible, and yet completely indistinguishable.

Greg looked at him. "You got a good feel for the scenes, then?" he asked.

"Yeah," said John slowly. He squeezed his fists tightly and glanced between the empty desk and the red-stained bed.

 

* * *

 

That night, after Greg had dropped him off home, John didn't sleep. He stared up at the ceiling, body limp, mind whirring as he went over everything he knew about the case, the evidence, but most of all the victims. John's heart ached for them. He knew spending too much time mourning the victims rather than focusing on mopping up the messes was bad practice. As a copper it was one of the things the higher ups hated about his work ethic. The fact was that it was difficult for John to see people as statistics, or names on paper, or bloodied photographs. He couldn't help but empathise.

And he was connected inexorably to this case in a way no-one else was. The implicit threat that when the copycat started running out of victims, there was only one person he'd come after.

_Have you considered the end point of this killer's game?_

John shuddered and rolled onto his side, hands curled on the pillow.

These people had a method of choosing their victims. Sherlock's was more random and harder to predict, picking out people who irritated him and planning their deaths in ruthless detail with whatever he had to hand. The copycat would have to be even more efficient. He had to have a method that produced a victim for him on the day that Sherlock had killed his. He couldn't follow a random person on that day and hope that they lived alone, or weren't on an urgent meeting with someone who would miss them straight away. Unlike Sherlock he didn't kidnap, it wasn't ritualised, instead he killed wherever his victims happened to be at the time.

Perhaps he didn't have the strength for it. Or perhaps the discovery of the bodies, linking him with Sherlock, was considered more important to him than the way the murders were carried out.

But how could he find people in their home alone? How could he see them?

Sherlock would know, John thought, his fists clutching tightly as if readying for a fight. Perhaps he'd worked it out when he'd seen the case files, and now just wanted to see what would happen next if he kept mum. And there was only a day until the copycat struck again.

In the end, it wasn't as though he actually had a choice.

 

* * *

 

The next morning was cold and wintery, and Greg spent a few minutes sitting outside in it, on a station bench with a very still John Watson and a cup of sugary instant coffee with a shot of whiskey. John's train to Berkshire was delayed.

Greg kept staring at John, couldn't help it, the man was like a statue if one ignored the wind that brushed at his hair. _I got you into this_ , was all Greg could think, and the thought was eating away at his mind like a noxious poison. "How are you feeling?" he asked, for the third time since he'd picked John up, but John didn't call him on it.

"I'm okay," he said with a tight smile, his speech coming out in thin clouds. He tugged his coat closer around his body and glanced up at the sky. "I'll be fine. I know what to expect this time."

"You can just walk out, remember," said Greg. "If he's pushing you too far. He wants you there. You're the one in the position of power."

John nodded in acquiescence, and took a sip of his own hot coffee. "I know," he murmured. "But it doesn't feel that way."

The memory of the mess John was with after the last time he saw Sherlock flashed through Greg's mind, and the corners of his mouth tightened angrily. He glanced around for the ticket booths. "Maybe I should come with you."

"No," said John immediately. "I need you back at the station. If I get information, I'll need you there to start working on it as soon as possible."

There was a flash of light in the corner of Greg's eye, and he turned to see the train's late arrival. People started to get up, collecting their bags and sighing at their watches. Something in John's expression hardened, and he finished his coffee, dumping the cup in the bin beside him as the train pulled in with a screech of steel.

Greg walked the few feet with him, feeling quite protective for reasons he wasn't willing to analyse. John turned to face him once he'd boarded, a small gloved hand clutching the handle by the door. He looked a little bemused, but waited for Greg to speak.

Gotta keep things professional, Greg reminded himself. "Remember," he said seriously, "the link to this case with Sherlock's is still a secret until we decide otherwise. Don't tell anyone." He broke off, remembering the transcripts. "Especially that head doctor, I don't like the sound of him."

"I'll remember," said John, and the doors slid shut. Through the window, Greg saw him move away to take a seat, steps careful in the rocking train. He waited by the side of the tracks until the train was out of view

 

* * *

 

Dr Culverton Smith was a lot less friendly the next time John Watson showed up at his door. John was left outside the doctor's office to wait, listening to barely muffled angry phonecalls through the wall. Apparently his presence was interfering with one of Sherlock's punishments. There was a particularly loud rant that had John raising his eyebrows, and an orderly trundling through the corridors with a wheeled tray met his eyes. Together they shared barely suppressed smirks.

"I don't like this," Culverton said later, a statement that was more than a little redundant considering his expression, like a captain whose crew just committed mutiny. "This is my hospital, and it becomes appallingly difficult to run when I am _trampled_ by bureaucracy!"

"I just need to get some more details on his case, doctor," said John stiffly. There was a stack of newspapers on Culverton's desk that caught his eye.

"Why the rush?"

"No rush," John assured him. "It's just we only have so much time that we can fit these sorts of things in. Schedules, you know." He smiled, but it froze on his face when he made out the front page photo of the top newspaper. Culverton followed his gaze, his smirk barely hidden, but John could tell he was itching to hear him ask about it, so he kept his mouth shut.

Although Culverton had no authority to deny John entry, he was a lot less courteous this time, delegating John's escort down to someone else and muttering under his breath about his rights. Through furious eyes narrowed into slits he watched John's neat little figure disappear down the hallways, then sat back, thoughtful. His gold pen tapped against his curled bottom lip.

The cannibalistic psychiatrist had been a prize when he'd first arrived; Culverton thought he'd found his ticket into the lifestyle of the famous author.

But Sherlock was untestable, and he never talked to anyone.

Oh, but he got visitors, the numbers jumping up whenever there was murder on the news and professors of psychology wanted to use that momentum to build a name for themselves - but they all left empty handed and frustrated at the pale man who lay silently on his cot and only opened his mouth to deliver his cutting insults. The orderlies talked about how he once made one cry. They said it with knowing glances - dealing with Sherlock certainly made Culverton want to scream in frustration.

And then there was John. Culverton tucked his pen carefully back into his pocket and lifted the old newspaper. John had paled when he saw it lying on the desk, his younger self cut open and barely alive, but then he'd swallowed that down and levelled Culverton with a look that could only be described as contempt. That made Culverton dislike John immensely; he hated being called out on his attempts to unnerve.

After five years of silent scorn from Sherlock, John Watson walks in, and all of a sudden he hears talk of how the man has Sherlock wrapped around his little finger. He'd expected a sweaty and terrified John to make a reappearance ten minutes after going down, but no, Sherlock had kept him there for over an hour in deep discussion. He'd been as pleased as a well fed cat for the rest of the day.

The press knew nothing about John's visits to the asylum, and, Culverton had checked, he wasn't actually a proper detective anymore. There was definitely something fishy going on, and he wasn't going to make any breakthroughs by being accommodating to everyone who wanted to treat his hospital as a meet-and-greet café.

So he picked up the phone to make an anonymous tip to the press.

 

* * *

 

When John arrived at Sherlock's cell, he noticed straight away that things had changed.

Sherlock sat at his now bare desk, his sleek figure utterly still, hands pressed together like a prayer under his chin. As part of his punishment for crimes unmentioned, Sherlock's cell had been stripped of anything remotely mentally stimulating. His bed was a thin framework, no pillows. His books and newspapers were gone, even the shelves were taken off the walls, leaving metal brackets sticking out like a wound. All he had was his bed, a chair, a desk, and his toilet. He looked like he'd gone a little mad.

"John," he said in his low rumble, unmoving. "I see you and Lestrade have been spending a lot more time together recently." His baleful eyes flicked over to John, and his nostrils momentarily widened as he inhaled.

John decided to ignore that and took his seat, feeling a tickle of trepidation over his spine as he looked into the bare cell, at the tension twitching at Sherlock's jaw like a ticking time bomb. He hung his coat over the back of his chair, wide-eyed in confusion. "What happened?" he asked, realising now what the 'punishment' Culverton had talked about consisted of.

Sherlock didn't answer for a long while, and then his lips suddenly stretched into a thin smirk. "That senseless doctor and I got into an argument. This is my reward. Not that I didn't expect it - I'm apparently mentally ill, I don't get rights like the _sane_ murderers do."

"Maybe I could talk to him," John started, but Sherlock reacted by slamming his hands loudly down on his desk and practically snarling. John flinched back.

" _Maybe_. Maybe maybe maybe. What a useless word. You're just one disappointment after another, aren't you." He leapt to his feet, chair smashing back behind him onto the concrete, and was up against the glass with his cold furious eyes glaring so quickly that John nearly fell backwards. "So what, you spent a day on the case and you've given up already? No wonder your life is in such a mess."

John stared coolly back, but his mouth was dry already. "Don't talk to me like that," he replied, but Sherlock was scoffing before he even finished.

"I can talk to you however I like," he snapped. "And you'd take it, wouldn't you. It's a singular virtue, John, you're a first class punching bag."

John held that mad gaze for as long as he could manage, and then he stood, picking up his coat with his eyes downcast.

Sherlock gaze sharpened. "Where are you going?" he growled, indignant, hands pressed against the glass.

"Home," said John simply, with all the authority he could muster. "I came here for help, not to be yelled at."

"You can't just leave!" exclaimed Sherlock.

"Yes I can," replied John, his expression set. He took a few steps away.

Behind him, he could practically feel Sherlock start to seethe. "I see," muttered the low voice. "A power play manoeuvre. How very low of you, John, to manipulate me like that."

John stopped and turned, meeting the vicious glare. "Don't pretend to be above manipulation."

Sherlock ignored him, hands sliding down the glass with a screech of pressed skin. He looked ghostly under the harsh light, his white clothes and skin almost blinding. "You think you hold the upper hand in our little arrangement, just because I like to see you?" he asked, his smile almost pitying. It turned to a scornful stare in a second, like someone had flipped a switch. "You forget that, whilst I enjoy having you around, I'm not above getting rid of you for my own gain."

John's scar itched under his shirt, the uncomfortable prickle of sliced nerve endings and sweat.

A knife through soft flesh.

"I haven't forgotten," he said quietly.

"Then stop this idiocy and take a seat." Sherlock stood back, gesturing to the chair as if asking a houseguest to make himself at ease. "Why bother pretending to walk away? Life is full of lies as it is without adding to the charade."

"It's not a lie," said John firmly. His hand fisted over his coat. "I can walk away at any time."

Sherlock let out an almost silent chuckle, head rolling back. "No you can't. Not if you want to save the next victim."

John froze.

"And you do, don't you," Sherlock continued lightly. "You want to save everyone. It's what keeps you going, it's what has you going back to the police force time after time-" his hand thudded on the glass as he spoke "-even as they suck the life from the very marrow of your bones. You let these people use you, and you value these strangers lives over your own. I'm not delusional. I know that's the only reason you're even here, speaking to me."

John realised he was breathing like he'd been running. He licked his lips, still not moving towards Sherlock. "My life isn't put at risk by coming here."

Sherlock's smile just widened. "Isn't it?"

John swallowed, shifted on his feet. He felt adrift.

"Do what I say and take a seat," Sherlock ordered, the smile falling off his face as he drew himself taller. "Because you must face the truth. I'm the one in control. I'm the reason you were even brought back onto this case. I say what happens next, because if you don't give me what I want, I'm not going to tell you anything."

"That's assuming you have something to tell." John snapped back, so tense it hurt.

Sherlock's jaw twitched, like he wanted to bite down. "Sit," he said, like it was a suggestion and not an instruction.

John wanted to fight back, he wanted a witty retort to all of Sherlock's venom. Instead he walked back over to his chair, feeling Sherlock's eyes on him like ropes dragging him inescapably closer. He could leave, escape before he was dragged into this any further, but then John's cowardice would be the reason another girl ended up dying.

And he couldn't let that happen.

Sherlock looked triumphant. "Good," he breathed. "Thank you, John." His hands dropped from the glass, but he still stood unnervingly close, pale eyes running over him as if trying to memorise his shape.

"Okay," said John, tilting his head up. "How is he doing it? How is he finding them?"

"Not so fast," said Sherlock, with a sly twitch of his lips. "I'm not going to give that all up for nothing."

"I'm here, aren't I?"

Sherlock glanced to the side, eyelids dipped. "As lovely as it is to have your forced company, John, your presence, while delightful, is not worth the value of what I know."

John stared up at him. "What is?"

Instead of answering, Sherlock let out a long sigh and turned away, kicking his chair upright and grabbing it, slamming it down next to the glass. He dropped into it and pressed his finger tips together, fixing John with his icy stare. Then he jerked his head. "Drag your chair closer."

John stayed still, feeling something like prey.

"John…" Sherlock said softly. A warning.

He was testing his power.

When John dragged his chair a few feet closer, he could see Sherlock's pleased smirk from behind his fingers. "You were something else before you were a detective," Sherlock said, pointing his hands right at John. "Weren't you."

John stiffened, mind whirring away in panic. "That's not a deduction. You read it, or someone told you."

Sherlock let out a bark of laughter, and wiped at his mouth. "I was suspicious when I first met you," he admitted. "So I stole a look at your files. It made for quite interesting reading."

He'd always been interested in John. John had written his behaviour off as eccentricity, although now he knew much, much better. "You had no right to do that," he said coldly. "Those files were private for a reason."

Sherlock spread his hands in apology. "You made me curious. I couldn't help myself."

"I don't understand. Why do you need me to tell you what you already know?"

"Just tell me," said Sherlock easily, settling back in his chair like it was a throne.

John turned his head, suspicious. "It just seems like an odd price for your knowledge."

"Stories can be so tasteless in ink on paper. I'd rather hear it from your lips." His fingers pressed together over his mouth again, his eyes fixed on John's.

"And if I do that," John asked, "will you tell me how the killer does his work?"

"You have my word, John," said Sherlock, eyes crinkling at the edges in a half-smile. "Whatever that means to you."

Logically, John knew he should find a promise from such an accomplished liar worthless. Instead he found Sherlock's word oddly satisfactory. "Okay," he said, licking his dry lips nervously. He'd been warned about opening up to Sherlock many times. "Before I was a detective, I was an officer in armed response."

Sherlock's eyes seemed to gleam at this, and he glanced at John's hands resting on his lap as if trying to find clues, despite the fact that it had been many years since John had held a gun, fired a gun. "Any good?" he asked, excitement thrumming in his throat.

John's shoulders squared. "Very good."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"Yeah," John admitted, clenching his left fist briefly. "I suppose I did."

"What did you enjoy most about shooting people?" His eyes glittered.

"It wasn't like that," John retorted. "It was saving lives."

Sherlock tilted his head. "By taking others?"

"We rarely had to shoot anyone. I mean… we had to keep in practice, target ranges, procedure and all that. There aren't that many guns in London, so sometimes just showing up was enough leverage to get the criminals to give up. I only fired my gun with the intent to kill once."

_Smashing through the front door, the seconds needed to orient himself in the pitch black, cut power. Taking point and stomping up the stairs, against the weight of his ballistic vest, the creak of wood underfoot. A man's violent bellowing._

_A young girl's screams being abruptly cut off._

John shuddered at the memory; the dark enclosure of the hospital was throwing him all too easily back into the past.

Sherlock's stare was merciless. "And did your intent become reality?"

_Blood spilt over old wood, seeping into the crevices like it was trying to spread itself as far as possible, trying to escape._

"Yes."

Sherlock held him in silence, quietly observing, fascinated. John's hands were shaking. He only noticed when he brushed one through his hair and it trembled over his ear.

"The killer used a virus to find his ideal victims," Sherlock said out into the silence. "I suspect the program was self erasing, but if your computer forensics team has enough talent and tenacity, they may find signs of it in both computers."

John was dragged back into the present, and he stared at Sherlock in shock. "A virus? How?"

Sherlock sat forward. "You loved your job."

John felt a rush of nausea. "Don't change the subject!"

"It was exciting," Sherlock continued, ignoring him. "An adrenaline rush, and you were doing good in the world. And yet, you left. Why?"

"Maybe I got bored," retorted John.

"But you didn't," said Sherlock, with his clever smile. "Don't lie to me John. I can tell."

John stared helplessly at him, then shook his head. "I just wanted a change."

Sherlock dismissed that. "Something is haunting you," he said, almost softly. "I see it in your eyes, in every shuddery breath you take when you think back to your past. Something broke you back then, didn't it? That change in career path was, rather than a decision made on a whim, a _necessity_."

John felt completely bemused. "Why do you want me to tell you this?"

"Humour me," said Sherlock. "I could demand so much, but all I ask of you is this, John. Then I'll tell you what you want to know."

John hadn't talked about in years, and he found it hard to sort out the events in his mind amid all the old fears that were now creeping back into him, keeping him on edge. Sherlock was now a point of stability, sitting in his cell with a steady gaze, legs elegantly crossed like he was a psychiatrist in his own home again. He could pass as one, John thought, if it weren't for the odd gleam behind Sherlock's eyes as he noted John's distress.

"It was a paedophile ring," John said eventually, and he had to bite the hated words out. "The case had been going on for months, maybe years, but they'd finally started to crack it. They'd tracked down one of the main players, but he hadn't been … cooperative."

Sherlock cocked his head, but stayed silent.

John took a deep breath. "He wouldn't talk to the police. When they got their warrant and entered his home by force, he shot at them. They had protective vests, but he got one of them in the upper arm." John rubbed a thumb over his own, conscious of Sherlock's eyes flicking down to watch. "Shattered her bone."

"Ah, I remember this case," said Sherlock, lips slightly pursed.

"Yeah, well, it's a hard one for anyone to forget," John murmured. "We were called in as soon as the station heard about the gunshots." He raised his head again, mouth set. "There was a hostage."

Sherlock's pale features were frozen in anticipation, his lips slightly parted. He gestured for John to continue.

"There was only one man in there, and he was yelling about how we couldn't take him, how he could do anything now, because nothing he did could make his sentence any worse. He was waving his handgun around, screaming threats at the top of his lungs. He… he had a girl in his arms." John blinked hurriedly. "His daughter."

_She'd looked so small in his arms, her face wet with tears that became all too visible when the light from the officers flashlights hit her eyes. She was crying silently, staring at John like he could do something. John panted in his heavy armor, shaking with disbelief at the scene in front of him, the raging monster of a man roaring with his gun pressed to his daughter's head._

_"I can kill her before you can kill me!_

"I didn't know what to do," John said, brushing his hand over his hair again like a nervous tic. "I wasn't meant to shoot him, but none of us were expecting the girl to be there. He was holding her up and in front of him, like a shield, and his gun was pressed so hard against her skull there was a red mark on her skin." He rubbed a forefinger over his temple. "I wasn't meant to shoot him."

"But you did."

John slumped in his seat for a few moments, head in his hands as a surge of nausea and regret took him down. He couldn't stop shaking. "He thought he was safe with his daughter shield," he told the bit of concrete between his feet. "But… I thought I could make the shot. She was crying, and I… I told her…"

_"It's going to be okay," John promised, trying a smile that she might not be able to see behind his visor._

"The man went mad at that. I don't know what it was, it was just the way he moved, but I knew he was going to shoot. I reacted, only…" John clutched at his head, eyes shut. "It was too late. She'd… died."

_Blood spilt over old wood._

Sherlock was leaning forward now, his elbows resting on his legs, utterly rapt. John sat up straight again, his eyes stinging. His face felt hot, and he resisted the urge to wipe his sweaty palms on his jeans as Sherlock sat there with watchful eyes, soaking in his emotional reaction.

"It was my fault," said John numbly. He clasped his hands together on his lap. "I should have taken him out as soon as I walked in and saw a child was there. But I didn't, because I was afraid of some… order that we had to bring him in alive. How could I put that over someone's life?"

"You transferred," said Sherlock, his voice rough.

John nodded. He couldn't quite speak.

"You made Inspector quickly." Sherlock kept pushing him. "Was that a conscious effort?"

John shrugged, cleared his throat. "If I work hard enough I don't have to think about what happened."

"But when you're not working." His voice was so carefully probing. "When it's just you, alone and tired. Do you think about her then?"

John raised his head to meet those pale eyes, his own probably shining, but he was past caring. "All the time."

He could feel a tear threaten to spill down his cheek and quickly rubbed at his eyes, sniffing. He felt almost violated. Sherlock watched him in silence for a while. Suddenly, John heard the chair scrape back as Sherlock moved, and he looked up to see him snatch a box of thin tissues from his bed and drop them in the slider box.

"I'm not meant to take anything from you," he said, flustered, his voice a little thick from a burgeoning sore throat.

"They're just tissues, John," said Sherlock gently, sitting back down and shutting his eyes with his fingers tapping under his chin. He didn't watch as John took them and dabbed at his eyes and face, as if giving him privacy.

Only when John had regained his composure did the all-seeing gaze settle onto him again.

"You're quite broken, aren't you?" he mused. "I feel like one touch would shatter you, except I know first hand how strong you are."

John was too exhausted to retort. "How does the copycat find his victims?" he asked, pushing the tissues back into Sherlock's cell.

"He's a spider casting out his web," said Sherlock, with a faintly amused smile. "A virus, flung across the internet and sucked up by computers within his reach. He can turn on cameras, microphones, and when he finds someone alone, vulnerable, he goes to them." The smile widened. "And then, he does his work."

John nodded. "So… we're looking for someone good at computers?"

"An incredibly talented coder," Sherlock clarified, standing. "I wouldn't be surprised if that's how he found the details in my case. The Metropolitan Police Service database is not without holes in its security." With a haughty sigh he rolled his neck, and John heard a soft click. Sherlock moved closer to him. "You look so tired, John," he murmured. "If you were mine, I'd look after you."

John took a pointed step back. "I don't need looking after."

"You have no idea how you look to the rest of the world, do you? That's the tragedy, really. A soul of such resilience in such a frail body." Sherlock rested his forearm above his head on the glass, leaning close. "People look at you and all they see is a ruined man, teetering on the edge of self destruction."

John blinked slowly, tilted his head. "And what do you see?"

Sherlock smiled, and his voice went low. "I see steel."

It was like there was no glass between them, for a moment.

"It was a pleasure seeing you again, John," Sherlock said softly, and this time there was no disguising the hunger in his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

Jim Moriarty remembered their fateful meeting, over five years ago. It was scorched into his memory like an injury.

He'd been recommended to take an evening appointment, the last slot; Dr Sherlock Holmes would let him have extra hours as necessary that way and Jim might get everything fixed in one night. He fervently hoped that this would be the case, that the doctor was as good as he advertised. Just in case he wasn't, Jim had made the appointment at Dr Holmes's private house so he knew the layout of where the man lived. It would be best if it didn't come to retribution, but no-one took Jim's money without paying him back in kind. Not without dearly regretting the transgression.

The days were short, so it was already dark outside when Jim arrived for his session, the streetlamps softly glowing up above, everything around a deep grey-blue. Night removed colour from the world. Jim had to squint as he checked behind him, spinning the steering wheel of his BMW to neatly parallel park. He'd driven himself here. There was no need for anyone else to find out about this particular weakness, especially if it turned out that Dr Holmes had no cure.

Jim could hear the faint strings of a violin as he walked up to Dr Holmes's house, a steady deep melody muted from behind the windows that leaked yellow light from around the edges of the drawn curtains. The playing abruptly stopped when Jim rang the bell, and Dr Holmes appeared a moment later at the door, expression courteously neutral. He wore a dark shirt and slim cut suit trousers, his tall thin figure silhouetted by the hall lights. Jim had only spoken to Dr Holmes on the phone. He hadn't been expecting someone quite so … striking.

"Good evening," said Sherlock, his lashes dipping as he ran his ice-blue eyes over Jim, cataloguing. "You must be Jim Moriarty."

"Evening," said Jim brightly, dearly hoping that Sherlock could help him. It would be such a waste to kill something so very pretty.

Sherlock stood back to make room for Jim indoors, the neutral expression not leaving his face. An ordinary person wouldn't, but Jim could tell he had to force that look.

He suspected Sherlock's natural expression was a lot sharper and less _polite_.

"Come in," Sherlock said graciously. "You're a bit early."

Jim knew that. "Oh, sorry," he apologised with a grin, stepping past Sherlock and into the hallway, scuffing his feet on the welcome mat. "The clock in my car must be off."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly. "It's fine," he said, with a slight tightening at the edges of his lips. "I've got everything set up."

He was an unusual psychiatrist, Jim mused, as he followed Sherlock's slim back into the lounge. He didn't seem particularly comforting, but Jim wasn't looking for a sympathetic ear. Sherlock's eyes were bright and very intelligent, and he had this faint aura of omniscience about him that Jim found exciting. He was above and beyond what Jim had been expecting. He felt certain that this was the man he needed.

There was a violin resting on a stand besides a grey-green chair, Sherlock's chair. Slightly away was a comfortable looking couch that Jim could lie on, very Freudian. Sherlock gestured to it but Jim just laughed and shook his head.

"I'm fine on a normal chair," he said.

Sherlock didn't move. "Trust me, this is better."

Jim perched on the edge, upright, and smiled up at Sherlock.

"Lie down," said Sherlock patiently, and Jim could tell that nothing was going to continue until he did what he was told. He let out a fretful sigh to show just how annoying Sherlock was being and slumped back onto the couch. If this treatment, whatever it was, didn't work, Jim was going to hurt Sherlock for all these small indignities. He didn't like surrendering to anyone else. He didn't like the vulnerability that came from lying on his back, unable to easily escape.

He heard Sherlock sit, saw him cross his long legs out of the corner of his eye. "You were recommended to me, you know," Jim said, with a knowing nod. "Cured one of my employee's claustrophobia in one session. Very impressive."

Sherlock shrugged. "It was a long session."

Usually Jim could read people, but Sherlock was impenetrable. "He wouldn't say how you managed it though."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "You mentioned on the phone that you had a troubling fear of spiders."

Jim laughed. "Yeah, since I was little. I grew up in a house that… well," he twisted his head to stare up at Sherlock. "There were lots of ways for spiders to get in." Sherlock stared impassively back. Wasn't he meant to have a notepad or something? He waved his hands and carried on. "It's gotten to the point where it's embarrassing. I'm 33 years old, and I'm still scared of spiders."

"Do photographs of spiders frighten you?"

"Don't they frighten everyone?" Jim laughed, but Sherlock didn't blink. He frowned. "Well, I get a feeling of _revulsion_ , but I think that's normal. I think it's their movements that freak me, rather than what they look like. Especially when they're big and fast. Fucking hell I'd scream so loud if I could," he giggled uncomfortably. It was embarrassing.

Sherlock sat in silence for a moment. Jim pretended he was writing notes on imaginary notepaper so it could be like in the movies. Then Sherlock spoke. "I used to be frightened of spiders too."

"Really?" Jim exclaimed. He hadn't been expecting that. Sherlock seemed so imperturbable.

Sherlock inclined his head. "Oh yes," he murmured, and he sounded a little bitter.

"But you're not anymore." Jim wriggled upwards so he was resting on his elbows. "Did you rationalise yourself out of it?" he accused. "Because I've tried that already and I still hate the little fuckers."

"There's nothing rational about phobias," said Sherlock gently. "Fear of spiders is common for a number of perfectly sound evolutionary reasons, and despite how harmless the ones in England are we still feel the vestiges of that fear when we see one. It's not that they're dangerous. You know that, I know that. In this case, rationalising yourself out of this mind-set would only have a slim chance of working." He cocked his head, clasped his hands together. "If you don't mind me saying, I'm not surprised you failed."

"How did you cure yourself?" Jim asked, interested.

Sherlock stared thoughtfully at him, then glanced down at his clasped hands. "I didn't," he said. "I required outside help, like you do."

He was very vague, this doctor. "Can you help me?" Jim asked, biting down his annoyance.

"Oh yes," said Sherlock, with a grin that bordered on sly. "I could probably cure you tonight." He leant a little forward, tone serious. "It won't be easy, though, nor pleasant. Are you still willing to try?"

_Of course_ , thought Jim, and he nodded sharply. Sherlock leapt to his feet and strode to his bookshelves, stretching up to pull a folder out from the top. Jim could see a suggestion of his lithe shoulder blades moving under the dark shirt. He wouldn't mind seeing this doctor more often. Pay him lots, keep him around…

Sherlock slid out a sheet of paper from the folder. "I have a contract for you to sign," he said smoothly, gesturing for Jim to rise. "It's fairly simple. If it's to your liking, I can help you straight away."

Jim sat up on the couch, skimming through the contract with narrowed eyes. Various terms leapt out at him that didn't bother him too much, but the one that struck him the most was the demand for silence. Afraid of others stealing his methods? "Is this a gag order?" he asked Sherlock, who was unobtrusively tuning his violin while Jim mulled everything over.

"Yes," he said simply.

Jim laughed. "So that's why Seb couldn't talk to me about his session," he chuckled, holding out his hand and mimicking a scribble in the air. Sherlock stood again, offered him a pen, and as soon as Jim signed it, the paper was whisked out of his hands. Jim watched the doctor glance over everything with a slight narrowing of his icy pale eyes, and then the papers were stored away. He sat by Jim on the couch, and Jim could feel the heat of his body so close as Sherlock ducked his head, dark curls swaying forward.

"This is going to be quite a …" Sherlock paused delicately, " _physical_ cure. I wasn't making light of the situation when I mentioned it would be unpleasant."

Jim shrugged.

"I mean it," said Sherlock, looking very intensely into Jim's eyes. Jim laughed.

"Trust me," he said with a grin. "I've been in plenty of unpleasant situations before." More than this upper-middle class doctor in the nice part of London had, he was sure.

"Yes," murmured Sherlock, with a dip of his eyelids, and Jim got a feeling he was being mentally weighed up. How charming. "I can see that." To Jim's surprise he got up and dropped to his knees on the carpet, rustling under the couch to pull out thick straps, black, their ends attached to the sides of the couch Jim sat on. "I'm going to restrain you now," he said in a professional voice. "So find a comfortable position."

This had gotten interesting. "Okay," said Jim, amused, and he lay back and let Sherlock work over him. The straps went around his chest, bound his arms to his sides, his legs. They buckled together, pushing him into the couch, and with surprising strength, Sherlock tugged them tight enough so that when he was done, Jim could do nothing but wriggle.

"When I was a child," Sherlock said, testing the straps for strength and leaning back when satisfied, "my brother collected spiders."

"Really?" said Jim, and he strained against his bonds, testing. It was no use, he was stuck tight. Sherlock's eyes flickered as he noted this, then he stood straight and walked to the corner of the room, far enough away that Jim had to crane his head to keep an eye on him.

"I'm not sure why they appealed to him so much." Sherlock ducked behind a chess table and came up with a large blanket covered box that he carried carefully level. "It was a hobby that grew from collecting the ones he found around the house, to spending money on very expensive breeds from all around the world. Perhaps he liked their nature."

Sherlock placed the box gently onto the coffee table, lifting the blanket with something like reverence.

"They were the perfect predator to him, patient and cunning. They didn't need to run or chase. They just _waited_." Sherlock seemed to shiver, running a finger around the lid of the box. "He had no fear of handling them, but I," he huffed a laugh, "I was terrified of them. I tried to hide it, as one always tries to hide one's weaknesses from an older sibling, but he found out one day. My fears annoyed him. I was behaving irrationally."

With two hands he raised the lid from the box, placing it to the side. Something had darkened behind his expression, and there was a predatory deliberateness to his movements that Jim hadn't picked up earlier. He swallowed dryly as Sherlock reached a long-fingered hand down into the box, slowly, warily. There was a rustling noise, if Jim listened closely. The sound of something scratching.

Sherlock's voice had dropped in volume. "One night he snuck into my room, while I was still asleep." He took a deep inhale of breath, and then turned suddenly to stare directly into Jim's eyes. "He upended a box of spiders into my bed."

The image of a young boy trapped in blankets, screaming in fear as spiders crawled over his skin, struck Jim's mind, and he found himself breathless. He tore himself away from Sherlock's gaze only to find himself watching the box with growing horror as the rustling seemed to magnify. Suddenly, a long black leg appeared from inside the box, latching onto Sherlock's arm where it was still reaching inside. Jim's mind dissolved into pure panic as an enormous spider pulled itself up Sherlock's shirt sleeve, heavy and black with fat limbs. Its leg-span must be several inches long.

Sherlock didn't spare a glance to the horrifying creature that clung to the crook of his elbow, instead gazing quite calmly at Jim with the expression he'd worn at the door. The fake one. The mask Jim thought he'd seen through. "The best treatment for this sort of phobia is exposure to the phobic stimulus in a controlled setting," Sherlock said, voice polite. "Have you heard of flooding before?"

Jim just shook his head, gibbering in fear, staring widely. He couldn't answer. The first spider sat itself over Sherlock's heart, dangling pendulously, and another massive spider was now hauling itself up Sherlock's arm. The box still rustled. How many spiders were there?

Sherlock just smirked as Jim started straining at his bonds, and didn't wait for an answer. "Flooding is the extreme of exposure treatment. The patient is immersed in the fear reflex until fear itself fades away." He looked down as a third spider reached his shoulder, scrabbling at the silk of his shirt. "They realise there's nothing to be afraid of." He brushed a pale finger over the spider clinging at his chest, making its fat legs scramble. "My brother held me down and covered me in spiders until I no longer found them frightening. I locked your claustrophobic friend into a coffin and kept him there all night. Some phobic reactions are so intense that flooding must be done via the imagination." His eyes fell on Jim's squirming body. "But I think you're strong enough to stand this."

He had four spiders latched on to him, the largest resting on his neck with its black legs digging into his curls, and when he picked up the box and started walking over Jim's frenzied stutters turned to pleading screams.

Sherlock was unsympathetic. "I'd suggest keeping your mouth shut, for obvious reasons," he said shortly. "And try not to wriggle so much. They might bite."

Then he upended the box over Jim's body.

 

* * *

 

John didn't stumble out of the hospital. He gathered himself and marched with quick strides, eyes ahead, all the tension in his body bunched tightly into his balled fists. Only once he was outside in the still bitter early morning did he drop his composure. Out of sight, he nearly collapsed to lean against a rough brick wall, knees weak, and pressed a tightly clenched fist over his mouth to stifle what threatened to be a whimper. If he walked into the car park, the slowly circling taxi he'd called up would see him and take him to the station, but John wasn't quite ready for that yet. He needed a private moment, he needed to process how swiftly things were falling out of his control.

Sherlock's cold eyes were in the forefront of his mind, a stare that had buried so deep that John knew he'd remember that particular shade of ice-blue for the rest of his life.

He hadn't spoken about Rachael in years, to anyone. Those who knew what happened knew enough not to ask about it, and so John could successfully bottle up those memories in some dark corner of his brain and get along as if the whole thing was just a vivid nightmare that he didn't have to worry himself with. It was a comforting, if unhealthily avoidant, illusion.

And then Sherlock Holmes had -

John pinched the bridge of his nose and gulped down the ice cold morning air. His lungs hurt. He needed a scarf, or a thicker jacket. The concrete swam beneath his feet, grit and dirt.

There was a buzz against his chest that startled him; just his phone. It buzzed noisily in his pocket and he scrambled for it with numb hands. "Hello?"

"John," Greg's familiar voice rang into his ear, and he sounded shaken. "I've been calling you. We need you back in London right away."

John breathed heavily against the wall for a moment with his eyes clenched shut. He lifted his head. "Sorry, I had no signal. Sherlock's cell is underground," he explained, apologetic, breaking out into a brisk walk towards his taxi. His voice came out slightly thinner, but Greg didn't seem to notice. "What is it?"

"We found three bodies in the Thames this morning," said Greg quickly. John could hear the wind whistling like static through the speaker, and he had an image of a cold Greg standing by the grey river water a little bit away from everyone else, coat flapping around his legs. "They'd gotten stuck on some piping and one washed up to the surface. We've cordoned off the scene and we're going to bring them up soon."

John nodded at the taxi driver and jumped into the back seat. "Station please," he requested, then spoke back into the phone, unable to hide his confusion. "I'm only back on the one case, Greg. Why do you need me for this one?"

"It's the same killer, John," Greg said, and he swallowed noisily. "They're all young women and they've all…" he dropped his voice, cautious, "…got body parts missing."

John sat back in his seat with a hiss of squished leather. His throat tightened. "So it's not just two victims anymore."

"I don't know, but it looks that way," Greg admitted. "Toby's gone practically mute. He's thinking it all over."

Five bodies, not two. How many had Sherlock killed? They'd managed to pin nine on him, although John always thought there had to be some sloppy practice kills hidden somewhere, or some they just weren't good enough to find. "We have to tell people. Do a press conference or something. We can't hide the connection from everyone anymore. People need to know so they can protect themselves."

Greg huffed down the phone. "Yeah I was thinking the same thing. We'll talk to Toby about it. Text me when your train gets into London and I'll get uniform to pick you up."

"Right," said John, nodding even though Greg couldn't see him. "Okay."

There was a pause, and John thought Greg was going to hang up. "Are you alright?" he asked instead. "Everything … go okay?"

John shut his eyes and the swerve of the taxi taking a sharp corner hid his shudder. "I'm fine."

"Righto." Greg paused again.

"Also, I've found something out that I need you to get on straight away." John lowered his voice. "It's about computers …"

 

* * *

 

After too long in the water, bodies just don't look human anymore.

Greg stood with the other officers like he was at a funeral, hands clasped neatly in front and head slightly bowed. Beside him, DCI Toby Gregson was barking orders to the poor souls who had to cinch the swollen purple bodies out of the water, voice loud as if he were angry. It wasn't truly anger, Greg had worked with the DCI long enough to know he was masking his fear with bravado. These three bodies had upped the pace. Now the police had five unexplained murders, a sixth one planned, and no suspect, with a link to a case that the press in the past had eviscerated them for.

The white sun occasionally flashed from behind the clouds in the morning sky, too bright, like a flashlight shone in the eyes. Police cordons flapped flimsily in the breeze, and the barrier sheets that hid the bodies from bystanders rippled like sails. There was a terrible indignity about bodies found outdoors. Greg had seen it all; muddy corpses in ditches, rotting bodies hidden in the woods, and those buried in underwater graves, like what he was seeing now with three young women in various stages of decomposition, their hair falling out and their sodden skin rubbing off like so much pastry. It was sheer chance their final resting place hadn't been the bottom of the Thames, in the mud, amongst the garbage that didn't float.

He felt rage rise up in his throat, and quelled it with difficulty. From across the way, he saw John appear from the centre of the scene, ducking under a cordon and glancing around. His eyes landed on Greg, and he walked over, squinting against the wind He looked steelier than usual.

"What do you make of it?" Greg asked quietly once John was near him. Apart from the DCI, everyone had taken to speaking in hushed voices.

John flexed his fingers and glanced over to the scene he'd just left. He seemed to be mentally calculating. "Going by the state of them, I'm guessing they were killed before the two that'd been found indoors?"

Greg nodded. "They're getting a proper autopsy as soon as possible, but yeah, so far, that's what I'm being told."

"So he killed those three, then he decided to change his methods."

Greg blinked slowly. "Right," he said.

"Sherlock said," John broke off and pressed his lips thin, brows furrowed. "I mean, the first time I went to see him, he said the message was the important part."

"The victims weren't important, just their bodies," Greg said, nodding hurriedly.

"I guess he changed his method to make sure his victims were found."

It was regrettable, but missing person reports rarely made the news, and the police had very little option to chase them up when there were bigger crimes elsewhere. There was no point in the murderer's preaching if no-one was paying attention to him. Serial killers _liked_ being in the news.

Beside him, John stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked over to where the bodies were being loaded up. The water would have destroyed most of the evidence, but they'd be taken to the morgue anyway where some unlucky pathologist would document everything. Hopefully the women could be quickly identified. "We need to talk to Gregson about a press conference," he said quietly, but was interrupted by the shrill ring of Greg's phone.

Greg held up an apologetic hand and answered. "Inspector Lestrade." His face was set and surly, but as the voice on the other end spoke his eyes lit up and sweep around to land on John. He pressed a hand over the speaker and mouthed at John in a frantic whisper ' _they found the virus!_ '

 

* * *

 

"A press conference." Toby Gregson sat back in his cushy office chair with a squeak, levelling John with a scrutinising glare. Greg's expression chastened, but beside him John continued unabashed.

"If our theory of the killer following the dates of the Holmes case is right, then we're expecting a murder tomorrow," he said, matching Toby's steely gaze with his own, and there was a definite impression that he'd hold that stare until he got what he wanted. Toby was reminded of a younger John Watson at the shooting range, firing off round after round with frightening accuracy, and he had a feeling he might not win this one.

"John," he said with a magnanimous voice as he tapped his fingers against the heavy desk. "I understand this case is important to you -"

"I thought it was important to everybody," John interrupted, and there was something sharp behind his usually soft blue-grey eyes.

Toby granted him a smile from between rather gritted teeth. "You weren't … you weren't with us," he said delicately, "last time we had to deal with the press like this. They'll hound us, chase up innocent people they think should be suspects, stalk the victims' families …"

"If you're talking about Sherlock Holmes, I was here throughout the whole case, sir," said John, raising his chin. "Just not the last part."

Toby pursed his lips and considered the man in front of him. He knew John, knew that he was the sort of person who would usually follow someone else's lead without argument, but every so often he'd get an idea in his head and hold to it with a tenacity that some would call wilfully stubborn. And any attempts to persuade him out of the idea just had John digging his heels in deeper.

He spun in his chair to address Greg instead.

"In a case like this, we need to keep them in the dark."

Greg looked dubious, and John leant forward. "This isn't two bodies found miles apart anymore," he pointed out, eyes darting between Toby and Greg's silent staring. "This is a murderer who might have killed five people, and if Sherlock's right about the virus thing -"

He paused, and Greg spoke up. "Computer forensics just found a virus that controls the camera and microphone in both the victims' laptops, sir," he said, with a cough, "and Holmes thinks that's how he picked them."

Toby considered that, and turned back to John, who still sat neatly in his chair. He seemed a lot harder to ignore since his return from Berkshire, almost back to his old self, as if his encounter with Holmes had switched something on in his head that had been dormant for so long. He'd been soft at the start, borderline broken, to the point where Toby had felt guilty even using him. Not anymore.

"If he's finding his victims by spying on them, we need to tell people," John continued. "You know, stop those who fit his profile from using their computers, at least until we've figured this out a bit more." He glanced down at his lap. "I know that you're worried about press intrusion on the investigation -"

"Damn right," said Toby.

"But I think, in this case, the good we can do outweighs any bad consequences."

Toby squinted his eyes and sucked in a rueful breath. "I remember when you were doing all you could just to get out of my office, Watson," he remarked. "What happened?"

John shrugged. "I don't want to see anyone else killed."

There was a knock on the glass door, and all three men turned to watch Sally Donovan walk in, a glint in her eyes. "We've identified one of the bodies found in the river."

Toby's eyebrows shot up. "Yeah?"

"Beth Davenport." Sally's voice quietened. "The missing politician's daughter."

"… Oh shit," said Toby softly. Damn it.

"But we've got a link to the other two bodies. Forensics found the virus on her computer." Sally glanced at her files. "The pathologist did some rough dates on when the murders happened, and they all fall within the same dates as the Holmes case." She looked up. "I think this is definitely a copycat, then."

"A copycat with way too much information on the Holmes case," Toby growled.

In front of him, Greg looked vindicated that their theory was right. John just looked quite casually at Toby, brows crinkling together at the middle. Little bastard.

"Alright," Toby huffed. "Okay. I'll call for a press conference this afternoon." He waved his hands. "Lestrade, Donovan, you're going to present with me. Donovan, I want you to start organising our facts."

Sally nodded, her slim figure still paused by the door. "You want to talk about the connection to the Holmes case?"

"Yeah," Toby confirmed. "We'll mention the body parts as another link, that'll tie in the other two to the girls we've identified."

"Okay," said Sally with a nod. "I'll get on it."

"But, uh… we won't mention which parts were taken," Toby added. "Weed out false confessions."

Sally looked bemused. "Who'd confess to something like this?"

Toby scoffed. "You'd be surprised at the freaks we get confessing during this sort of case. And if this goes anything like Holmes …"

Both Greg and John rolled their eyes at the memory, and Sally smirked a little. She swung out of the room, the glass door clipping shut behind her.

"Am I going?" John asked, after a respectful pause. Obviously, he didn't want to push his luck anymore.

"You can sit in if you like," Toby granted him, "but you're not going on the panel. I don't think you're quite ready to have the Mail throw questions at you about the nature of your relationship to Holmes, now, are you?"

John smiled tightly. "We worked together and then he tried to kill me. It's pretty simple."

Toby chuckled. "Nothing's simple to the tabloids when it comes to the police. It's all conspiracies and scandal and cover-ups …" He waved his hands in the air.

John inhaled deeply and glanced off to the side, grinning. "God, I missed this job."

"Yeah, well, welcome home. Now get out of my office, I have a speech to write." Toby coughed and pulled his keyboard closer, then jabbed a finger at Greg. "Lestrade, get a suit that's makes you look little less hangdog, and something a little more camera ready. We want to look like we've got this one in the bag."

Greg tugged self-consciously at his suit cuffs as he and John got up to leave, Toby already tapping inexpertly away at Microsoft Word.

 

* * *

 

The press conference took place in a large and yet somehow still stuffy room at the station. There were shutters on the windows blocking out the harshest of the bright afternoon light, and behind the table at the head of the room, a poster big enough to be clear in any photographs, with portraits of the three identified victims and a number to call for information. Already seated were the gathered journalists, slightly cramped, but brimming with excitement as try tried to plan how to get an exclusive. Cameras stood at the back of the room, bulbs flashing as the officers walked into the room, and the journalists snapped to attention so they wouldn't miss anything, clicking on recorders and scribbling notes of the scene.

Toby took the middle seat, flourishing his freshly printed notes and stretching back with a grace that belied his bulkier frame. Greg sat at his right in a smart grey suit, and Sally at his left looking slim in tan silk. A more unobtrusive John was already sitting with the journalists, undoing the top buttons of his shirt to combat the artificial heat, unobtrusive and unnoticed at the side of the room where security stood. He watched the officers come in with the others, tense. He had to admit that they looked, as Toby had wanted, like they had the case in the bag.

Toby tapped his papers to the desk, and the commotion immediately died down. He cleared his throat, casting his sharp eyes over his captive audience before speaking. "I'm DCI Toby Gregson with the Metropolitan Police Service," he announced, then glanced at his colleagues. "This is DI Greg Lestrade and DS Sally Donovan. I'm going to read a prepared statement and then my colleagues and I will take questions."

The cameras flashed distractingly, but Toby was unperturbed. He'd done this before.

"Early this morning, the bodies of three women were found in the River Thames in the Greater London area. We have already identified one as the missing Beth Davenport, and are currently working to identify the other two. The evidence collected so far strongly suggests that these were murders, and even more, that they are linked to the murders of Tilda Hills here in London, and Victoria Grey in Guildford." He paused, and stared up from his notes. "Because of this, we believe that there is a serial killer targeting young women in the south-east of England."

A young journalist leant forward, hand raised like a schoolboy. "How are the murders linked?"

Toby looked to Greg.

"It's a pretty clear link," Greg admitted. He looked calm and controlled to the average person, but John knew Greg well and could see the apprehension behind his eyes. "All five victims had body parts removed and presumably kept by the killer."

The journalists around John started mumbling, the one beside him accidently nudging him as he scribbled in haste. Everyone knew what _body parts_ meant.

Greg continued, his voice stronger. "We believe that these murders are by a copycat, inspired by the Holmes case that finished five years ago. As well as the body parts that were taken, Hills and Grey were killed on the same day as Holmes killed two victims, and while we're still getting evidence from the bodies of Beth Davenport and the other two women found in the river, we know the dates roughly match."

Toby had a gleam in his eye. "This gives us a timeline of when the killer is likely to strike again."

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw a woman waggling her pen in the air. He didn't turn, not wanting the reporters behind him to focus too much on his face, but even from a distance he recognised her instantly as Kitty Riley, a now infamous journalist who had her big break as being the major source of news on the Holmes case. They'd never proven that she'd paid the photographer, but it was her paper that ran the picture of John half-dead in the hospital bed.

"Didn't Holmes kill that bassoonist on the 28th?" she called out. "Tomorrow?"

Reporters around her checked their notes in alarm, and Toby's expression darkened as he came to the same conclusion as John. "Yes, it's possible that the killer will strike tomorrow."

Kitty sat back, calculating. Beside her, another journalist spoke up. "How can people protect themselves?"

Eager to move on, Sally spoke up. "We believe that the killer is finding vulnerable victims by spying on them using the camera and microphone in their own laptop. We've been able to find traces of it on the victims' computers." She skimmed her notes, lips pursed for a moment. "So far the killer has only targeted young women who live alone, but they may expand their options if denied the option to find their preferred target. For this reason, we advise everyone living alone to stay off the internet at home if possible and use libraries or internet cafes instead, or maybe temporarily move in with family." She looked up again, gesturing to the posters. "Keep a watchful eye out for unusual behaviour with your computer and please call us if you think you might have the virus. It targets microphones and cameras."

Kitty Riley spoke out again. "Why are the police consulting Sherlock Holmes, a convicted murderer, in this case?"

John's stomach clenched tight, and his eyes swiftly met Greg's. To the side, Toby leant forward on his elbows, grimacing. "I'm not sure where you go that idea," he almost growled. "The police are not consulting Sherlock Holmes, nor would we ever consult with a criminal to help with investigations, especially not one who has a history of misleading the police for his own entertainment. Don't go causing a panic."

"Then why was John Watson, a police officer who worked on the Holmes case --"

"Former police officer," Toby interrupted.

Kitty just continued. "Why has he been to the psychiatric hospital, where Holmes is locked up, twice this week?"

"Where do you get your information?" Toby demanded, as the journalists started murmuring to each other. "Watson is no longer a police officer. What he does in his own free time has no standing in this investigation."

"He's here for this press conference," Kitty pointed out, gesturing in John's direction. "Odd for someone with 'no standing' in the police, don't you think?"

Toby bristled at her, like an angry dog, and Kitty was barely hiding her smirk.

"And he's been photographed going in and out of the station this very morning," she continued, eyebrows raised. "I've also got people saying he was at the scene where Beth Davenport was found. What are you hiding this time, Chief Inspector?"

"Don't start whipping up a scandal around this investigation too --" Toby snapped, but his voice was getting drowned out by the reporters who were now rushing to question John. John leapt to his feet as recorders were thrust into his face and tried to back away as the questions came.

"Do you often visit Sherlock Holmes?" shouted one, his hand hovering too close for comfort.

"Was this virus thing one of Holmes's theories?"

John held up his hands, shaking his head, and he heard the scrape of Toby's chair over the din.

"Get him out of here!" roared Toby at the security guards, gesturing wildly in the air. "And you lot! Sit down!"

Hands clamped down on John's shoulders as he was partially shielded by the blank-faced security guards. A voice yelled from over his shoulder, making him wince away.

"Given your history of being misled by Holmes, how can you be sure he's telling the truth this time?"

"What if Holmes is just leading you down the wrong path to help the copycat?"

"Come on, sir," said one of the security guards in a lower voice, an attempt to comfort. "This way."

John tried his best not to react and remain expressionless as cameras flashed off in his face. Tomorrow, this was all going to be in the papers, there was no doubt about that. Toby had been right, John had missed the worst of the media frenzy at the end of the Holmes case. It looked like he was finally going to get his fair share of it now.

 

* * *

 

Everything was silent once John got home. He felt slightly shell-shocked at the memories of the loud voices suddenly surrounding him, and was thankful that he'd at least had the self-constraint to keep his mouth shut against the probing questions. The flat was chilly, so he kept his coat on, kicking off his shoes at the front door and ambling over to the kitchen for a cup of tea. He reached out and swiped the birthday cards off the hallway shelf as he went, flicking through them with a nostalgic sigh. His birthday had only been a few days ago, but it felt like a lifetime.

It had been a boring affair at the pub anyway. John didn't like getting older. He was forty years old, and what had he done with his life? A failed career, no wife, no kids, and the only person who'd consistently remembered his birthday since he'd left the force was a serial killer who wanted to eat his heart.

In the kitchen, John flicked on the kettle and squinted his eyes shut. Years ago, his life had been less complicated. He remembered most of his time with Sherlock, it was hard to forget the man. But he remembered their meeting with peculiar and startling clarity.

It had been a cold and clammy evening with the sort of fine drizzle that felt like mist and still ended up soaking you. Greg had texted him in for a favour. John had very recently been promoted to Inspector, and although he and Greg were now the same rank, he still felt the strange tugging sensation to obey. He would have helped Greg anyway, he thought, and with that reassurance buzzing around in his head he got in his car and drove to the scene. He had some of the facts; a man murdered in his own flat, in his locked bedroom, the key still unturned on the inside when the police were called in. Greg always got the weird cases.

DC Donovan was standing outside the flat, waiting for him under the balcony where it was more dry, but her hair still frizzed up from all the humidity. She had a cup of cooling coffee and a scowl plastered over her face. Sally never smiled much, but she rarely looked _this_ pissed off.

John locked his car and walked over. "Hey," he said, and attempted a smile that wasn't returned.

"Going to see the scene?" Sally asked, taking a sip of coffee and grimacing. "I'd watch out if I were you."

John nodded vaguely. "Nasty one?"

"Remember that psychiatrist of DI Lestrade's I was telling you about?" Sally rolled her eyes. "He's here to help for free, show what he can do."

She didn't seem too happy about the extra help, which seemed wrong. John shuffled closer to get out of the rain and frowned at her. "That's a good thing, right?"

Sally just huffed a laugh at him, and flashed a tired smile. She stepped to the side and opened the door for him, gesturing her arm like a butler. "Go on," she said mysteriously. "You'll see what I mean."

John rushed indoors past various police officers who were milling about at the bottom of the stairs rather than looking at the scene, which was odd. He marched up the staircase past a bored looking forensics team who pointed him to the master bedroom. The door handle was stiff under his fingers, and turned with a squeak.

He heard voices in the room before he fully opened the door, Greg's panicked shout.

"What are you… you can't go out there!"

John stepped in, neatly shutting the door behind him. Police instinct kicked in and his eyes quickly swept over the room, taking in the expensive furniture but sparse decoration, and the splayed out body of a large man, blood cooled in a halo around his head from a hole in the side of his neck. At the edges of the scene, Greg was staring out an open window, clutching at the sill with white fingers. John coughed politely, and Greg spun around.

"Oh, John!" he said, looking a little surprised.

"I got your message…" John explained, but he felt a bit out of place. He lowered his brows. "What are you doing?"

Greg opened his mouth to explain, but was interrupted by an excited shout from out the window. "This is how the murderer got in"

There was a scuffling noise from outside the window, and a confused John joined Greg to watch a tall, dark haired man shimmy up the piping and stone, pausing every so often to glance at the wall with a small magnifying glass. He was practically bubbling up with energy, and had the sort of joyful smile on his face that seemed incongruous with the bloody crime scene behind them. His eyes were pale and focused, and his movements had a casual grace to them that made John feel clumsy just by watching.

If he lost his grip at this height, his fall would break bone.

Greg looked as worried as John felt, but the man managed to climb back up without slipping. He perched on the windowsill, the tails of his long coat dangling out in the breeze, and pointed to a smudge of black on the edge of white paint. "Shoe scuff," he said brightly, his cheeks flushed over his pale skin. "It was all up the pipes. I'd guess a woman, looking at the distance between them and the way they would have supported a body's weight. Move back." He flicked his hands at them.

John and Greg obediently stepped back without thinking about it, and the man slid into the room behind them.

"An athletic woman, certainly," the man continued, tugging off his gloves and glancing around the room. "Used to finding unusual ways of breaking into buildings. The fact that she killed him with the letter opener and didn't bring a weapon tells me that she didn't come here to kill him. Perhaps she was an unlucky thief, who wisely decided not to take anything other than cash once she made this house a crime scene. Tricky to trace, then. Unlucky, Lestrade. You're on the trail of someone clever." He smirked. "Good thing you have me here."

Greg raised his eyebrows for a second, but then folded his arms and tilted his head towards the man, agreeing to listen. "Alright," he said. "What am I looking for?"

The man's fine features seemed to sharpen. "You're looking for a women around five feet tall, possibly with a history in gymnastics. That's a dangerous climb for anyone, especially at night when alone. This isn't her first robbery, and I believe it matches a spate of break-ins committed over the last few years. If I could look over your past unsolved robberies I could find ones committed in similar circumstances and find you more evidence with which to catch her."

He turned that last sentence into a request, the arrogance dropping so swiftly off his face, it was as if it were never there in the first place. Greg paused. He was obviously unwilling to let a civilian into confidential police reports.

John broke the silence. "You got all that from shoe scuffs?" he asked incredulously.

The man's head swung swiftly in his direction, eyes narrowed, and whereas before John had felt invisible, he was suddenly very _present_ as he became the focus of that laser stare. "What of it?" the man asked, voice low.

"It's just…" John waved his hands as he tried to out his thoughts into words, and the man's eyes following his every movement was slightly off-putting. "It was amazing! I've never… you must have been on the scene for half an hour at the most!"

The man's eyes widened slightly, but he quickly suppressed his shock. "Ten minutes would have been ample," he said dryly, but he looked a little pleased with himself. "The evidence was right here in this room."

He'd drawn himself higher, coat flapping around his calves as he gestured to the poor dead man on the floor. As Greg looked on, dubious, the tall man was almost preening at John's compliments. John felt a little sorry for him. He seemed a little eccentric; perhaps he'd had no-one around who would praise him when he was growing up.

"Lestrade," said the man suddenly. "I need to look through the other robberies. It is essential. You already know everything about me, and you have my references. I'm _trustworthy._ "

Greg rolled his eyes and sighed, defeated. "Oh, okay, _fine_."

The man's eyes flickered, pleased. "This sergeant here can take me to the station," he said, pointing directly at John.

It was John's turn to smirk. "I'm an inspector, actually."

"Mm." The man's eyes ran over him again, recalculating the variables. "Of course. Very recently promoted." And he strode out of the room with his coat flaring dramatically behind him.

John looked at Greg, and he heard the distant commotion of the man charging down the stairs past all the police officers. "Are you going to tell me who that was?" he asked lightly.

"Dr Sherlock Holmes," said Greg. He shrugged his shoulders, uncomfortable. "He's a psychiatrist."

"Right," said John.

"You don't have to drive him to the station if you don't want," Greg said. "He just likes ordering people about. He's a bit of an arrogant sod. I try not to let him push me around too much."

"No, I'll take him back." John found himself eager to see more. "I was heading to the station anyway when you texted me."

Greg nodded gratefully. "I'll see you in a bit."

Outside, the rain had stopped. John tugged his coat a little more tightly around his body and stepped into the cold, glancing around the streets for Sherlock. He spotted the tall figure waiting by his car, just watching John without expression. He made no move or greeting towards John, but didn't look away either.

"Well done," said John with a smile, as he walked down the past all the parked cars to where Sherlock had unerringly identified John's own. He pulled out his keys, twisting them nervously in his fingers as Sherlock stared unblinkingly at him. "How did you figure this out?"

Sherlock didn't answer for a long moment, then turned to the car. "You're here on your own time, if what Greg said was true, so you aren't going to be using a police vehicle. That, and given your height and leg length with the way the driver's seat is set up, and I think the answer is quite obvious, don't you?"

He said it so nonchalantly. John just grinned at him. "Dr Holmes, right?" he asked, extending his hand. Sherlock stared at it for a split second as if John was holding out some sort of explosive, but then he shook John's hand with a firm, cool grip.

"Sherlock," he offered instead, smiling faintly back. "Please."

Sherlock held his hand for slightly longer than was considered polite.

"What's your name?" Sherlock asked, and there was something about the way he said it that just sounded _wrong_ in a way John couldn't identify, like a machine collecting information for later use. John shook his head. Sherlock was just odd, he knew that already.

"John," he said politely. "John Watson."

"Hm…" murmured Sherlock, his eyes blinking like camera shutters.

John unlocked the car, and they climbed in out of the cold. Sherlock slumped into the seat beside him and immediately started peering around, checking the upholstery, even popping open the glove compartment to sift through all John's expired tax discs, his A to Z of London, and a half-eaten pack of boiled sweets. As John shifted the car into gear and peeled off into the road, Sherlock made himself at home and popped a lime lolly into his mouth, lazily snapping the compartment shut with his foot.

"What made you say I was recently promoted?" John asked.

"The way you acted around Inspector Lestrade," said Sherlock, around the lolly. "Subconsciously, you still think he's higher rank. It affects your behaviour; he asks you for a favour and you respond like it's an order." He gave John a disparaging look, and John frowned.

"I don't mean to."

"Of course not," Sherlock declared. "That's what subconscious means. I can also tell you're a second sibling."

"How?" John asked, incredulous.

"Takes one to know one," said Sherlock with a smirk. "And _she_ wants to stay in touch more than you do. You begrudgingly acquiesce, but you draw the line at contacting your parents." He glanced over at John again, eyes half-lidded. "I wonder why…"

"How the heck do you know that?" demanded John.

"Photo," said Sherlock, pointing at the tiny, torn portrait of John and Harry behind the steering wheel. "Sent by your sister, she pressed a bit hard when she wrote on the back. It was obviously a family portrait, but you've ripped it. How old are you in this photo?"

John blinked hurriedly. "Eighteen," he answered, licking his lips. "It was taken before I left for university. How do you know I ripped it? She might have done that."

"Her writing continues on the part you ripped off," Sherlock said, lolling his head to the side to stare out the window. "Obvious, really."

John spared a quick glance at him, and saw the feigned indifference to John's reaction. "That's amazing, you know how you put all this stuff together" he said honestly.

"I'm observant," Sherlock said, shrugging. "It's not a superpower." But yet again, he was straightening his back with slightly shocked pride, a pleased smile tugging at the corners of his lips. John smiled with him.

They went into the station together, Sherlock sweeping through like he owned the place. But he was remarkably polite to all the late night staffers, perhaps aware that he could get thrown out if he upset anyone, and turned up the charm whenever someone enquired about their activities. John got him settled at a computer and brought him a cup of tea with lots of sugar. Sherlock slurped at it, distracted, already skimming through robbery reports. John sat by him, just watching him peering at the screen and muttering under his breath.

"Haven't you got more important things to do than stare at me?" Sherlock asked, eyes not leaving the screen.

"Not really," admitted John, half rising from his seat. "Do you want me to leave you alone?"

"No," said Sherlock swiftly, pressing his hand over John's forearm. "Stay. You help me think."

He'd gathered enough evidence to make an arrest of a young gymnast with a colourful history in under an hour. Greg and the other officers who were working on the case were all speechless as Sherlock ran through his presentation. The station kicked into action, and Sherlock sat back looking quietly pleased with himself as the commotion built around him.

"Well, now you know what I can do," he said with a smirk. "I do hope I've been helpful. I'd ask you to consider consulting me on your more interesting cases."

He held out a business card with his number and address, and Greg automatically reached out to take it, but Sherlock instead handed it to John. His slender fingers brushed John's wrist.

"Goodbye," he said, and then turned on his heel and swept out of the room.

John rubbed a thumb over his wrist, staring at the neat print on ivory cardstock.

"Might as well chuck it," said Sally, arms folded defensively.

"Well…" Greg was a little more undecided. "He could come in handy, and he's not charging us anything. We could get him looking through cold cases, missing persons, you know."

John ended up pinning the card up on the noticeboard for everyone to use. Over the coming months, he found himself bringing his more difficult cases to Sherlock just to talk over them, and he knew he wasn't the only officer doing it. Eventually, Sherlock became a common presence in Scotland Yard, and it wasn't unusual to see him hanging around the front desk chatting to the sergeant, or skimming over police reports in the computer lab, or talking things over with officers when they found themselves hitting dead ends.

"What's this about now?" Sherlock asked, lounging in the doorway of John's office.

"It's a new case I've been handed," John explained, flipping through the file. "Do you remember that loan shark we kept getting assault claims from his clients about?"

"Yes," said Sherlock evenly. "And there was no real evidence for a conviction."

"His body was found buried in a landfill site." John frowned, and squinted at the report. "Looked like he died from suffocation. The killer stuffed garbage down his throat until he couldn't breathe."

"A man like that would have a lot of enemies," said Sherlock, glancing away.

"That's not the weird part," said John. "His liver was excised after his death, and the pathologist says it was perfectly done. As in, it could only be done by someone who _really_ knew how to dissect bodies. And _that_ ," John announced, reaching into his filing cabinet and extracting a different folder, "matches the murder of this restaurant owner, the one who abused his workers. Expert kidney removal."

Sherlock's eyes seemed to glow in the dim light of John's office. "Interesting," he murmured, stalking over to flick through the files himself. "Very interesting indeed…"


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Pretty Arbitrary for looking over this chapter and making it more fun to read ♥

Sherlock lay on the thin mattress of his stripped down cell, eyes shut against the too-bright blue of the overhead lights. He could hear the bubble and snap of the fluorescent bulb like nails down a chalkboard, far too faint for most ears, but Sherlock's hearing was excellent and adaptive and in this silent climate they had already acclimatised to tiny, pointless noises.

John had come and gone that morning, but that was _hours_ ago, and Sherlock had already chewed over the encounter more times than he thought prudent for one day. The sensible thing for a man with unlimited time and nothing to do with it is to spread his memories out. Otherwise, they'd drive him insane.

He heard footsteps, laboured and overworked, an orderly then. Sherlock counted through the hours and realised it was time for dinner. The smell of hospital food hit him then, followed by the slightly sweaty scent of Dimmock, who was wearing a new aftershave.

"Evening," said Dimmock, and Sherlock heard him place the food tray in the slider box, and then there was a rustle of large sheets of paper. A newspaper.

"I thought the whole point of this exercise was to deprive me of mental stimulation," Sherlock said coolly.

He heard Dimmock's nervous shuffle. "Dr Smith wanted you to have it."

" _Did_ he." Sherlock stretched his limbs and then rolled out of bed, loping the few feet to his slider box. Dimmock quickly vanished, unwilling to spend more time than necessary in front of Sherlock's cell as Sherlock lazily swiped an apple from the food tray and pulled out the paper, spreading the cover out.

POLICE CONSULT MURDERER was loudly emblazoned over the front page of the evening edition broadsheet, and underneath in smaller font: "Sherlock Holmes helps police in the investigation of copycat cannibal".

How exciting. Secrets were starting to spill. Sherlock flopped onto his cot and took a greedy bite of apple, casting his eyes over the page.

They'd illustrated the story with a photograph of John at what looked like a press conference, his small figure partially obscured by police security as he tried to ignore the reporters swarming him. His face was in profile, eyes downcast and face forcibly blank. The caption called him expressionless, but Sherlock thought ' _stony_ '. He could see the panic in the tension in John's jawline, the tightness over his lips. The angle was perfect to admire the length of his blond eyelashes, reduced in print to a soft smudge of ink hovering over his cheek.

It seemed like their press conference hadn't gone totally as planned.

Instead of advice for the public on how to avoid the killer, like the police had wanted, the article favoured the dramatic, focusing on John as the only survivor of Holmes's attacks so they could retell all those lurid five-year-old stories. There was a recap of the Holmes case and the downfall of the police, accompanied by the usual photograph of Sherlock outside the courthouse in a sharp-cut black suit, flanked by bodyguards. They always used that one. Against the pale sky, Sherlock's figure looked like it was in silhouette. Sherlock envied his past self in all that space.

In a tone of conspiracy, the paper documented how John had misrepresented himself as an officer to Dr Culverton Smith (smiling smugly in his photograph before Sherlock scratched it out) in order to gain access to Holmes.

Finally, there were the facts. Three bodies of former victims had been discovered in the Thames, and one had been identified as a long missing politician's daughter. Sherlock skipped the memorial page with a scoff. The killer's methods were guessed at, and the writers wailed at length about the dangers of the age of technology, and, more usefully, how a computer's camera and microphone could be easily hijacked.

Further down the page was a photo Sherlock hasn't seen printed before, of himself and John, tightly cropped from a photo of the whole team happy and slightly drunk at the pub. It had been after a successful case. Sherlock looked haughty and bored, only reluctantly consenting to be photographed, while John smiled freely at the camera with the arm of an off-screen Greg resting over his shoulders. His cheeks were flushed from alcohol, although the effect was somewhat diminished by being printed in black and white.

This would have been taken just before the start of what eventually came to be known as the Holmes case, Sherlock remembered, brushing his fingers down the newsprint. That innocent John beside him had no idea what was going to happen. If Sherlock went back in time and told him everything, John would just let out that whispery giggle and punch him on the arm.

Sherlock ached for a time when John would willingly touch him. He missed the heat of that forbidden skin against his own.

The paper went on discuss the current theory that the killer was copying the dates of the Holmes murders, down to the day and month. They were quick to point out that this meant that the killer may be searching for their next victim tomorrow, an old anniversary of the day Sherlock had kidnapped Terry Goodwin, a bassoonist for the London Philharmonic, and sliced him up to serve at a dinner party.

Sherlock smiled widely, and bit into the apple. That took him back.

Even as a much younger man, Sherlock had always loved symphonies. He particularly admired the work of Dmitri Shostakovich, a Soviet composer whose talent was forever restrained by the whims of Stalin. When he'd heard that the London Philharmonic was planning a concert to play Fifth Symphony at the Royal Festival Hall, he'd eagerly purchased tickets for several nights in a row. The Fifth Symphony was his favourite, a quietly defiant Shostakovich fighting criticism, forcing officials to recognise the full extent of his genius in the ways his music could move audiences to tears.

Sherlock had perfect pitch, which throughout his life had been both a blessing and a curse. He picked up on little off notes that skipped by the ears of the more ignorant. He remembered sitting with John over tea, and ranting about classical music, eventually playing him an old recording of some idiots squeaking out Chopin that he'd been given as a poorly chosen Christmas gift. He'd popped the CD on in good faith only to be reduced to seething anger at the number of mistakes in it. John, however, listened to the end, only to faintly smile when the torture was over and say it was nice.

So Sherlock knew he could only find pleasure in a perfect performance, but he trusted the London Philharmonic.

It was a trust that he extended in vain.

Soon after he'd settled down to soak in the music, his sensitive ears started to detect unacceptable errors. The faults were small; tiny slips and off-tune notes. It was like a fleck of dust in one eye and impossible for Sherlock to ignore. He narrowed it down to one of the bassoonists, who he would later identify as Terry Goodwin, and noted the man's expensive shoes, the soft hands and lips that had no business looking so _unused_ by a bassoonist. He left early, discreetly, and sold the rest of his tickets for the season on eBay. He quietly fumed for days, planning his revenge.

He'd been in the middle of enacting it when he heard John's voice at his door.

"Sherlock?" John sounded curious. He'd probably seen the lights, maybe some movement, and John wasn't stupid. "Are you home?"

Sherlock glanced down at his red-stained body, hands slippery with blood, and scowled at the unfairness of it all.

"Are you alright?" The curiosity was turning to worry.

The whimpering by Sherlock's feet grew louder, and as the ringing of the doorbell sounded through his house again, Sherlock realised he'd have to act quickly.

He dashed to his bedroom, ripping the sheets off the bed in a violent tug and swathing himself in them so only his head poked out the top. With a quick check in the full length mirror to make sure all the important bits were covered, he toed off his blood-stained shoes and shuffled to the front door. As he walked, his face started to slacken. His eyes watered like they were stinging, and he let saliva gather in his throat. His posture rounded, as if from exhaustion. He looked like he was dying by the time he answered the door to the midday sun.

"Sherlock!" exclaimed John, his eyes flicking over Sherlock like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. It was a fair reaction. Sherlock had been fine when they'd met up that morning.

Sherlock coughed thickly. Already a good deal taller than John, he practically loomed over the man from the top of his doorstep like a broken scarecrow. "What are you doing here, John?" he asked, letting his voice fall rough. "I'm unwell."

"I'm so sorry." John ducked his head, embarrassed, then started digging into his coat pocket. "You uh, left your phone in my car this morning."

He held it out in his small, clean hand. Sherlock's hands itched red from under the sheet he clutched around his body. "Can you put it on the table?" he said, nodding his head towards the pot-plant stand just inside. John didn't ask, just reached inside and carefully placed Sherlock's Blackberry down. "Thank you."

"Are you okay? Can I get you anything?" He shifted from side to side at Sherlock's feet, looking terribly earnest.

"I think it's best you go," said Sherlock. "I'm no doubt contagious." And he coughed once again for good measure. "I'll be fine. I know I don't act it, but I _am_ a doctor."

John's answering smile was tight and uncertain, but he was obviously unwilling to push Sherlock's boundaries. "Alright," he said eventually. "Get well soon. You can text me you if you need anything."

Sherlock gave him a thin smile, and John left without any more fuss.

Sherlock slammed the door shut and ripped the disgusting sheets from his body where they'd stuck to his skin, letting them fall in a crisp white and red pile at his feet. They were ruined now. There was no way he was going to sleep on bed sheets that had ever touched that idiot's blood.

He pulled his shoes back on and stalked back to his office.

The room was covered floor to ceiling in plastic sheeting. On a white tarp on the floor that was already gathering red blood in the folds and dips on the plastic fabric, lay the bound and bleeding body of Terry Goodwin, the useless bassoonist of the London Philharmonic. He had a healthy but bulky figure, with thinning hair and pleading green eyes that kept spilling pathetic tears over his round cheeks. His mouth was distorted by his gag, and he could only make snuffling, grunting noises. They'd be the last noises he'd ever make.

Sherlock walked over and with a cruel deliberateness, pressed the heel of his shoe hard into the man's cheek.

"Well, there you go, inconveniencing me again." He pressed down, hard enough to leave a groove where the edge of his heel dug into the flesh. "First you ruin my evening at the Royal Festival Hall by your amateur blowing during one of the most exquisite symphonies ever composed, and now by splattering that filthy blood of yours all over me so I had to lie to a friend. I _can't_ lie to this one."

He kicked away, and took a few steps behind Terry's head, so the man had to roll and strain to keep his eyes on where Sherlock was dithering over his tools on the carefully covered work desk.

"He's more astute than he realises," Sherlock murmured. "Those sorts of suspicions tend to build up in one's brain."

His fingers hovered over a boning knife with its sharp point and narrow blade, and he gently curled them around the handle, lifting it slowly so the metal gleamed in the overhead lights. Behind him he heard the explosion of muffled whimpers.

"No matter." Sherlock's voice briefly lowered as he eyed up the recently sharpened blade, his mind filled with the peach-softness of John's skin as he stood outside Sherlock's door. "I'll deal with him later."

His memories of John safely stowed away, Sherlock turned to face his target. He flipped the knife in his grip, as dextrous as a chef, and started to circle Terry's crumpled body.

"I'd wanted to see a live performance of Shostakovich for _years_ , do you realise? And I would have enjoyed the evening immensely were it not for the continued interjections of an out of tune bassoonist. Did you not show up to practice with your fellow musicians? I couldn't understand it. I thought to myself afterwards, how on _earth_ did this imbecile get a place in such an important performance anyway?" His eyes narrowed in disgust. "I should have realised. You were someone's son, someone's brother. The upper classes have an awful habit of favouring family over talent."

Terry whimpered his pleas, his protestations, and Sherlock soaked in that fear as he knelt by the man's head. When he lifted the knife to rest it under Terry's eye, the man instantly silenced at the implicit threat.

"Good," Sherlock said, letting the pleasure roll over his tongue. "Don't bother speaking. I'm not taking off that gag. This isn't a conversation, and there's nothing you could say that would persuade me from killing you. Think of your death as an inevitability, if that helps."

Clearly it didn't, as the man started shaking and wriggling as if he could hope to squirm away. Sherlock dug the knife into the delicate flesh under his eye to still him, and the blood welled up like tears.

Sherlock leant in in to whisper right into Terry Goodwin's ear. "I'm hosting a dinner for the patrons of the London Philharmonic. You'd recognise some of the names, they're the ones who ushered you in to gain favour, and in doing so, blighted the work of a genius mind. I'm going to serve you back to them. Batter the air out of your meat and sear it with a touch of oil." He squeezed his hand over the man's body as if he were at the butchers. "You look like you have a few good cuts on you."

His face darkened and with a vicious thrust he dug the knife in deeper. The man screamed under the gag, a true scream. He knew he was going to die.

Later that night he smiled a generous smile as the guests to his dinner party complimented the dishes he served.

 

* * *

 

It was early evening when DCI Gregson's team and their conscript gathered to discuss the copycat case. There was a sense of dread hanging low in the air in fear of what the next day would bring. The latest editions of the newspapers were lying around the room for perusal, and like it was five years ago, the sharp features of Sherlock Holmes glowered back at them from black and white photographs.

Sally was currently the centre of attention, with her whiteboard of names and dates matching the copycat's killings with the original, red marker encircling Terry Goodwin's.

"The killer started at the beginning of this year," Sally declared, "and he's working on an accelerated timeframe compared to Holmes. Notice how the days and months match, but the years are irrelevant? That's why the killings haven't been perfectly chronological. He's condensing Holmes's killing spree into one year."

Her pointer travelled down the list of names, and her face coloured when she reached John's. The unspoken threat on John's life was something everyone thought about, but didn't voice, and it made Sally's gut boil with frustrated anger.

She cleared her throat and continued. "We've identified another of the women, the most recently killed of the bodies found in the river. Her name was Molly Hooper. She was a pathologist at St Bart's hospital. The landlord reported her missing when she missed paying rent and he couldn't get a hold of her. She'd set up automatic payments on her bank account and it had been eating away at her savings long after she died. The money ran out only recently."

Toby glanced up shrewdly from where he leant against a constable's desk. "The flat's untouched? Have you been to look it over?"

"Should be left as it was, sir," answered Sally easily. "DC Hopkins and I are going there straight after this. What we know right now is that she was killed in her home, and the door wasn't forced."

"Which I don't get," Toby groused, folding his arms. "How did he get in? Women don't just invite strangers into their homes."

"Maybe he wasn't a stranger," John piped up from where he sat with Greg, and heads twisted to glance in his direction. "If he can get access to a laptop's camera and microphone, he probably gets their IP address to find them. Maybe he gets to know some of them a few days before… you know." He trailed off with a shrug.

Toby's sharp eyes narrowed in thought. Sally knew that he and John weren't on good terms after the disaster of a press conference, but Toby respected John and listened all the same.

"Some of the doors were forced, though," Toby pointed out eventually. "Picked locks."

John shook his head. "We already know he's willing to change his methods to suit his victim. He's not going to risk failing his message."

"Why are we so certain that the killer is male?" Sally asked, rapping the pointer against her fingers. A nervous twitch. She'd always fidgeted, and she'd been too stressed recently to worry about damping it down.

"We just sort of assumed at the beginning, right?" Greg mused. It had been his and Sally's case at the start, before it had gotten too big for one DI to manage.

"It's far more likely that the killer's male, Donovan," said Toby in a generous voice. "Most serial killers are."

"Sherlock referred to the killer as male before I even said anything to him," John added. "He says it like it's obvious."

That snapped Sally's tether. "Oh, well if _Sherlock_ says so -"

"Donovan!" Toby growled. "Stop. While I appreciate that you're trying to look at this from a different angle, for simplicities sake, let's keep calling him a him."

And just like that, years of built up resentment spilt out of Sally like water from a broken dam.

"I'm just tired of us taking that murderer's words like they're gospel!" she exclaimed. "He's lied us for months, _years_ , with no compunction whatsoever. And even if he does know something about this case, do you really think he's going to tell us everything? He never will. He's a fucking greedy sociopath, and he'll hint at clues in little dribbles, just enough so we feel compelled to send poor John up there again and again to beg for more from him."

"I don't mind going," John said quickly, and Sally didn't laugh at him, but it was probably obvious on her face what she was thinking.

"You're an awful liar, John. You retired for a reason, but we've all forced you to come back and relive something you should never have to relive, so we wouldn't have to face our own cluelessness. Sherlock's using you; he's tormenting you for his own entertainment. _We're_ using you," she insisted, and waved her hand at the rise of disgruntled mutters, "no really, we are, and no-one wants to admit it, but it makes me feel sick that we've pulled you back into this when we should be protecting you. Look at this!"

She snatched a copy of the _Telegraph_ up, where John's worryingly blank face was spread across the cover.

"It was John's idea to hold the press conference," Toby said forcefully, anger bristling up his spine, and Sally knew she was treading on thin ice now.

"Sir," she said politely, but through gritted teeth, "if I may speak freely -"

"You may not," Toby answered, dismissive. "I think we've got the gist of it. I take it your presentation is over?"

Sally held him in silence for a moment, forcing herself to meet that steely gaze, but very few could outstare Toby Gregson. The full force of his personality was like a bulldozer. "Yes, sir," she said eventually, somewhat deflated.

Toby clapped his large hands together. "Right! Now that we're all up to date, I want you lot going over the evidence again!" There was a groan. At least they were getting paid for all the overtime this case was forcing on them. "Donovan, Hopkins, get down to Miss Hooper's flat and have a proper shift-around. And Donovan," he lowered his voice to a gentle reminder, "less of the conspiracy theories, alright? We're just a bunch of detectives, current and ex, working together to try and catch that bastard."

Sally nodded shortly. "Yes, sir."

She felt John watching her, and was unsurprised when he came over to her as everyone around him scattered to their work stations. He hovered in the background as she collected her coat and notepad, looking like he wanted to reach out and put a hand on her shoulder, but holding back.

"You alright?" he asked eventually, his hands flexing awkwardly by his sides.

Sally set her lips in a thin line and turned to face him. "I don't think you should be doing this, John."

John nodded. "Neither do I," he admitted. "But I want to, I have to. I'd be going mad if I was sitting at home just reading about this in the papers."

"It's just…" Sally sighed, wiping a hand over her forehead. "You're a civilian now. We're supposed to protect you but instead we're putting you right in harm's way."

"I'll be alright," John assured her.

Sally shook her head. "Keep telling yourself that."

"Sally!" called out DC Hopkins, his eyes wide with urgency. Right. Molly Hooper's flat. With a sigh, she turned away from John and walked off to join the constable.

 

* * *

 

The sun had set, and Greg was pulling on his coat with tired tugs. It had been a long day. Across the room John was doing the same. The small man's face was lined with exhaustion, and he'd tucked the collar of his jacket up so it brushed against the soft blond strands of his hair with every movement. When Greg walked over, John turned to watch him expectantly.

"Thanks for helping out today," Greg said, glancing down and rubbing his finger over wood of the nearby desk.

John dipped his head. "No problem."

"Are you headed home now?"

"Yeah."

Greg's hesitance must have shown, because John's brows creased together in the middle, questioning.

"What?" he asked.

"It's just… there's probably going to be a few reporters hanging around your flat," Greg pointed out. And possibly a serial killer. "I was thinking, maybe you could stay at mine instead. I've got a guest room."

John nodded again, and it looked like he was thinking it over. "Will your wife mind?" he asked.

Greg shook his head. "She's visiting a friend. Even if she wasn't, I'm sure she'd be fine with it." He shrugged, smiled. "And for me, I'd feel better knowing you were safe. I feel a bit responsible for you, to be honest, cause I was the one that dragged you into all this -"

"You didn't drag me," said John firmly. "I walked."

Greg held his breath for a moment. "I'd like it if you came over," he repeated. "For my own peace of mind, if nothing else."

John's eyes darted over his face as if looking for something, then he smiled. "Alright," he agreed. "Let's get food on the way there though, I'm starving."

 

* * *

 

A generously proportioned Chinese takeaway was spread out over the coffee table in Greg's living room, and he and John slumped in the couch in front of the telly, sucking up noodles and criticising the news. They had a few beers between them to wind down, and maybe Greg had a few more than John, but who was counting?

"I wish they'd focus more on how people can make themselves safe rather than digging around for a scandal," John muttered, rubbing his fingers over the bridge of his nose as if to ward off a headache. On screen, he was being sheltered by security guards while reporters scrambled for answers to their questions. Greg watched the real John's falling expression with a frown.

"You alright?"

There was silence as John stared at the TV for a fraction too long, but then he inhaled deeply and glanced over at Greg. "I'm okay. I still think it was worth it."

He looked pale under the light of the telly.

Greg took a deep pull of beer as the unwanted memory of a deathly white John lying comatose on a hospital bed drifted to the forefront of his mind. He remembered sitting by that bed with rage and frustration boiling away inside of him, and he still couldn't comprehend how it all happened five years ago. Everything still felt like yesterday. He still hated himself for being the man who let Holmes into his crime scenes.

"Do you think there's a chance there won't be a killing tomorrow?" Greg mused, trying not to sound too hopeful.

"I'm not sure," John said quietly. "It'll be harder for him. People will be taking precautions."

"I'd like to think we could beat him." Greg finished his beer and crumpled it on the coffee table with a decisive flourish. "Mess up his message."

John stared blankly at the telly, as if he were looking through it. "Mm."

He seemed uncertain. Uncertain and deathly tired, and as if on cue his head flopped back against the back of the sofa and he let out a long yawn. His eyes were dark and bleary.

"I think I should turn in."

"Alright," Greg said, unmoving. He'd already shown John around. "Night."

"Night," said John with the smallest of nods, and he pulled himself to his feet and pottered out of the living room.

It was nice to have the house feel lived in again. Greg listened to John's footsteps over carpet and tile, brushing his teeth, the click of light switches. He channel hopped across the news programs, eventually shutting off the TV in pointless anger after landing on a crackpot theory about John being the murderer going to Sherlock for advice. As he sat there frustrated in the darkness, he tried not to think too hard about Sally Donovan's exclamations, nor the way John had looked almost carefree a few days ago before Greg had dragged him back into Sherlock's grasp.

 

* * *

 

As Greg had predicted, there were a few stray paparazzi outside John's building. They drove past the skulking group on the way to the station, and John stared in something like shock.

"I don't believe it…" he murmured, sitting further into his seat in case one happened to catch a glimpse of him. Probably impossible, but he didn't want to take chances.

"I told you so," said Greg. "They're ravenous."

The media had already tired of replaying the same bit of footage from the press conference, and the photos were starting to be repeated. They'd pay a lot for something new.

John twisted uncomfortably in his seat. "What sort of answer could they possibly hope to get from me?"

Greg huffed a laugh. "Any answer. Any reaction. That's all they ever want, and you're doing well not to let them provoke you."

John thought of Dr Culverton Smith and his gory photographs, and frowned.

 

* * *

 

The heightened profile of the case started to show that morning. Toby Gregson was busy at work in his office, already unsurprised by the number of calls in from the more nervous members of the public, claiming to have the virus. They'd had the expected false confessions, the number of officers needed to interview them slowly whittling down his manpower.

And now DC Hopkins was there shifted awkwardly in his office with information about the latest caller, a young man who was insistent that the killer was watching him.

"Does that man realise that it's women who are being targeted?" Toby asked wearily.

"He just sounded worried, sir." Hopkins furrowed his brow. "And his computer was acting up the way it did on the victim's laptops."

Toby waved his hand at the door. "Alright. Go and check it out. But be back quickly, I need all hands on deck for this."

"Yes, sir," said Hopkins, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He scampered out the door and Toby thought nothing more of it.

 

* *

 

With Sherlock's name in the news again and reporters calling every line, Dr Culverton Smith paid a visit to his celebrity down in the dank dark cell in the underbelly of his hospital.

There, on his cot, Sherlock was stretched out on his stomach and poring over the paper for what must be the hundredth time. He didn't bother acknowledging Culverton's appearance, not even after Culverton coughed a few times in hopes of a derogatory eye roll.

"Interesting, isn't it?" Culverton eventually opined, with a sly grin.

"You tipped the press that John was visiting me." Sherlock flipped the paper shut and dropped it to the floor, fixing Culverton with a stare so powerful he could feel it in the back of his head.

"You pushed me, Sherlock," he said delicately, starting to pace. Sherlock's head slowly swivelled to follow him. "You deliberately kept me out of the loop. And god knows, nothing I do to you ever goes through that thick skull of yours, so I thought this would send a better message."

"'This'?" repeated Sherlock, nose wrinkled like Culverton had just vomited over his shoes.

"I hear he has reporters camping outside his house," said Culverton, halting in his walk and turning on his heel to face Sherlock directly. The icy eyes had narrowed into slits, but there was nowhere to direct all that anger. "It must be awful for John right now," Culverton continued in a sorrowful tone. "Reliving the worst experience of his life in the public eye. Everyone says the killer's going to go after him eventually. How do you feel to have doomed him to that fate?"

Sherlock let Culverton's speech hang in the air for a few moments, and then he shifted his head to the side. "What do you want, doctor?"

"I want a tell-all," Culverton replied instantly, then tried not to bristle at Sherlock's immediate smirk. "I want to write this book, and make enough money to retire from this shitty fucking hospital where I have to deal with pricks like you all day. It's the perfect time to start looking for a book deal. Your name is all over the papers again."

"How predictable," Sherlock said, glancing off in amusement to the ceiling. "And what do I get in return for spilling my life story for your profit?"

Culverton shrugged. "In return, I won't make your John's life any more of a misery."

Sherlock's gaze snapped back to him. "I don't care if he's miserable."

"Really, Holmes," Culverton scowled. Well, it wouldn't be the first time Sherlock had faked a friendship for his own gains. Maybe John was less important than everyone made him out to be. In frustration, he raised his hands. "Well, what do you want then? Anything that's in my power to give, I will grant."

"I'll think about it," said Sherlock dismissively. Then his eyes went distant, calculating. "As long as we're in the negotiating mood, however, I might have a piece of information that would help get your name in the spotlight again." He raised an eyebrow. "Might help with those book deals."

Casually, Culverton rested his hands on his hips. "Oh?"

Sherlock's smile flashed white teeth. "The identity of the copycat killer."

Culverton's heart leapt in his chest, and he struggled to keep his face blank. These sorts of exchanges were the closest he and Sherlock would ever get to playing poker. "You know who it is?" he asked, licking at his dry lips.

"I've known from the beginning," replied Sherlock, cocking his head.

"Well, why didn't you tell your little friend?"

Sherlock glanced down at his hands and scratched at the back of his long fingers. "John has nothing to offer me, other than his presence. If I tell him everything, he stops seeing me. If I withhold information, he'll keep coming back."

Culverton was grudgingly impressed. "Clever."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "It's simple psychology, but it works on everyone." He treated Culverton to a sideways glance. "Even you."

Culverton crossed his arms and ignored that latest insult. Despite Sherlock playing at nonchalance, he was speaking with unusual candour. Was it the effect of his punishment? This could work. "What do you want then, in return for this identity?"

"I know I'm not getting out of prison, doctor," Sherlock sighed and flopped onto his back like a cat, his arms dangling as if boneless off the sides. "However, I'd still like to live the rest of my life out in a bit more comfort. I want to see the sun again. Let me have a cell with a view. Let me see trees and birds, let me hear the sounds of the world happening outside."

A new cell? That was easily done. "The window will be barred," he warned, trying to hide his eagerness. It wouldn't do to give Sherlock the illusion of any control.

"I don't care," said Sherlock wistfully. He looked like he was staring out an imaginary window already.

Culverton let himself grin. "Then I have just the room for you. Maximum security, of course, but still very nice. Tell me the name and I'll have you moved there."

Sherlock took a deep breath, and a long slow exhale. "His initials are E. R. I'll tell you the rest once you've given me what I want."

Culverton excitedly started to plan his media appearances in his head, on television news stations across the country with 'Expert Psychiatrist' beside his name, being hailed as a hero for revealing the identity of the copycat killer. "I can't transfer you now," he apologised, "as I'll need to get the cell front rebuilt. It's bars right now."

"'ll tell you the rest once I'm in my new cell," Sherlock repeated coolly.

How hard would that be? Culverton frowned. It would be better to move him now and get the information before the killer struck again. Surely they could make new security procedures, as a temporary measure of course. They'd kept him behind bars before, and they'd learned from their mistakes. Perhaps measure the length of Holmes's arms and mark out a line on the floor that shouldn't be crossed while he was unrestrained. It would work.

Besides, Sherlock would be in a good mood once he got in there. There was little danger.

He needed to move quickly. Now was a good time to be getting on Sherlock's good side if he wanted to get that book deal.

"It's a beautiful day today, Holmes," he said with a grin. "I'd start preparing yourself to see it."

 

* * *

 

Sherlock let his face go blank as he was strapped down and muzzled by cautious orderlies under Culverton's watchful eyes. His face was his mask, something to hide behind as his brain went into overdrive.

Despite the obvious fear from the orderlies, a group of people that Sherlock had a colourful history of attacking, he made the effort to behave and didn't raise a fuss at anything they did to him.  As they wheeled him down his corridor and carried him up the stairs, their bodies strained at his dead weight. Sherlock couldn't move his head, but around them the ambient light began to grow as they reached the top of the stairs.

Then they were on the ground floor, and then higher, if Sherlock had counted the number of stairs correctly. First floor. No windows he could see yet, but the diffuse light in the hallways could be nothing but sunlight. Second floor, and he could guess orderlies' arms were thankful when they put his gurney down. As they pushed through the doors into the wide open hallway,  Sherlock's flickering eyes took in the cream linoleum and bright white walls, so different from his underground surroundings. He breathed in the smell of antiseptic and clean flesh, heard the quick steps of nurses and doctors sweeping out of their way.

Sherlock filed all that information away for now; they'd reached windows. As he was wheeled down wide corridors, he craned his head to the left to catch a glimpse of the yellow sun in a bright blue sky.

They reached his new cell, gratifyingly larger, brighter, and well lit by the afternoon light. After he was settled in, it was all he could do to sit at his wooden desk and stared in awe out the window.

"The name?" asked Culverton.

It was like he was asking from very far away, or like Sherlock had been submerged underwater.

"Mr Ed Ring," he said slowly. "He's German, and a former arachnophobe."

He didn't spare Culverton's glee any more attention.

The trees swayed outside his window, and he could imagine that breeze on his skin. Who would have guessed that the hospital had such beautiful grounds?

And the sun! It was like something out of a dream. His eyes watered, sensitive after so many years in artificial fluorescence and darkness, but he couldn't look away from the burning mid-afternoon sun that lit the sky in such glorious colour.

 

* * *

 

John, Greg and Toby were going over the latest interview notes when Toby's phone rang out in a shrill whistle. It was one of the uniformed officers, and Toby held up a hand to keep the others quiet while he answered.

"DCI Gregson," he said, flicking the phone to speaker mode.

The voice that came through was firm, but shaking a bit at the edges. "Sir, it's PC Fred Foster. I've just been down to pick up DC Hopkins from where he went to see that guy and…"

The man dithered, clearly panicked, and Toby patiently waited.

"Hopkin's been murdered, sir." PC Foster's voice cracked, and at the other end of the line, the listening detectives all felt their hearts sink. "There's blood everywhere. I didn't go in for too long, I didn't want to spoil the scene."

Toby's chin dipped down. "Good man."

"I'm standing outside now. Just need some backup, I can't deal with this on my own."

"I'll send a team down right away," Toby replied instantly. "Hang in there, PC Foster."

He hung up, the phone slipping from his hands and tumbling to the desk as his head fell into his hands. Failure.

"That was the killer," John said, staring into middle space. He seemed deflated. "The man that called up about the virus earlier. We _had_ him."

Toby rubbed at his face, furious with himself. The tension in his shoulders was tortuous. "I sent Hopkins down there. On his own."

Greg quickly exchanged glances with John, and then spoke in a lowered voice. "You weren't to know, Toby."

"I know, I know…" Toby sat back and exhaled, slumping as if boneless in his chair. "You two better head down. Lestrade, call up a forensics team."

 

* * *

 

When John and Greg pulled up outside the address, they could see the officer's empty car parked on the street. PC Foster himself was standing by the doorway, and he rushed forward as they approached with a haunted expression on his pale face that sent a stab of panic down John's spine. He remembered the shaky voice over the speakerphone.

Greg answered the officer's unasked question. "Forensics is on the way. Show us to the scene."

Foster hesitated, and then seemingly steeled himself. "This way," he offered, and guided them from the crisp outside air into a dingy looking flat that smelt like the owners rarely opened their windows.

It was a short walk down a corridor with few personal effects, then Foster paused in front of a partly opened door and flashed John an odd look. "You're John Watson?"

John raised his eyebrows. "Yes," he said curtly.

"You… probably shouldn't go in there."

John frowned and cocked his head to the side. "Why not?"

Beside him he could practically feel Greg's nervous shifting, but he kept his eyes on Foster, who nervously swallowed in the face of John's forceful stare. "Just…"

And John could tell. Greg was about to step in and order him away in an attempt to protect him from whatever was in there, but John was sick of being mollycoddled. As Greg opened his mouth, he barged past them with a stony expression and shouldered open the door into the living room.

The smell of blood and raw flesh hit him like a punch to the lungs.

Young DC Hopkins lay on his front in the middle of a red stained carpet, his shirt ripped from his body to expose his back, where chunks of flesh had been carved and stolen from either side. John could see the dead man's innards, and his hand hovered reflexively over his scar which burned with half-remembered pain. With the amount of blood that had leaked, Hopkins must have been sliced open while he was still alive.

"Jesus," hissed Greg, his voice startlingly close behind John's ear. He'd followed John in, and was staring at the wall with wide eyes. John followed his gaze, and his stomach sank.

Emblazoned high across the hideous paisley wallpaper, block capitals in still drying blood spelt out the threat Foster hadn't wanted him to see: YOU'RE NEXT JOHNNY BOY

The Y extended all the way to the floor until the blood ran out.

John was frozen to the floor. He felt a rush of coldness, like all his blood was rushing from his extremities for protection, and his mouth had gone dry. The implicit threat had become reality, and now John had nowhere to turn.

He needed to catch the killer. There was no-one left to protect but himself.

"John." Greg's voice again, interrupting his thoughts, but in all honesty John was having a hard time catching a single thought from the rush of panic and fear that clouded his head. He felt helpless, and he hated it, and Greg's overbearing mother-hen act was just making him feel worse. "John, look at me."

John didn't. "I need to…" he started, gesturing vaguely at the room, "… look at the scene.”

"John," came Greg's voice, this time sterner. Hands grabbed at John's shoulders and twisted him to face Greg, and he half-heartedly tried to fight it but was shocked still by the sincerity of the concern on Greg's face. "Go back to mine," Greg all but ordered, eyes fixed on John's. "You need to rest."

John flapped his mouth uselessly for a few seconds before finding his voice. "I can't just abandon a scene because…" He gestured at the wall, unable to finish, and Greg shook his head and spoke over him anyway.

"You absolutely can. Look, I've got this." When John pulled away, Greg let him. "We'll get him. Hell, look at this place, we're definitely going to find evidence. I promise you John, I can handle this."

John's world was still spinning.

"I'll see you when I get home." Greg was already ushering him out. "Chinese, again?"

"Yeah," John nodded slowly. "Keep me updated."

The nervous PC Foster accompanied him to the front door as if he was accompanying a time-bomb.

"Hopkins was a mate of yours, wasn't he?" John asked. He recognised those two faces, younger. "I remember you joined up at the same time."

Foster did a double-take and stared at John as if from a new angle, quickly nodding. "Yeah," he said." I wasn't bothered by it, but he always wanted to be a detective. I remember when he was promoted…" He broke off, like his throat was sore.

"I'm sorry."

Foster's returning look was fervent. "You're a good bloke, Watson. A good copper. When you came back, Hopkins kept telling me that you still _had it_ , you know? Sung your praises."

John was a little stunned. "I didn't realise."

Foster squared his back. "We'll be okay here, Watson. And we'll get him. You don't have to worry." His eyes fixed somewhere over John's shoulder, and then a cab swung by. Foster ran for it, arm outstretched. "There you go," he said with panting grin, and jogged back inside after a nod of farewell.

The taxi driver looked curiously after him, and John got in with a rueful smile, expecting to fend off questions.

"Where to sir?"

Greg's address was on the tip of his tongue, but John couldn't bring himself to say it.

He wasn't sitting this one out.

"Take me to Waterloo."

 

* * *

 

Instead of dreading his journey to Berkshire, John found himself anticipating it. He'd bought his ticket and had to jog to the next train that was leaving, jumping in before the doors slid shut behind him. Later, and as the last one left in his carriage, he was doing the cryptic crossword on a copy of the Metro, when his phone buzzed noisily in his pocket.

"Hello?"

"Hey John," answered Greg with his voice slightly hushed. From the sound of things, Greg was still at the crime scene. John heard the murmurs of the detectives and forensics teams milling about behind him. "Have you seen the news?"

John paused and decided whether or not to tell Greg he wasn't actually sitting around indoors. "Not yet," he said carefully. The train went over a loud bump in the train tracks, but Greg didn't seem to notice.

"You know the head of the psychiatric hospital Holmes is in?"

John let the paper flop against his lap as he sat upright. "Dr Culverton Smith?"

"Yeah. Apparently Holmes has turned a new leaf and has decided to confess everything to the guy."

John snorted in disbelief.

"No, seriously," said Greg. "He's on the news right now. Holmes has named the killer as a Mr Ed Ring, and gave some identifying information. He's German, and a former arachnophobe, whatever that means."

"A former arachnophobe?" John repeated, confused.

"To be fair," Greg replied, "that sounds exactly like the sort of weirdly specific thing that Holmes used to deduce when he worked with us."

John had learnt quickly that it was important not to underestimate Sherlock's words. He had a tendency to layer meaning into things and make you work to find them, like his observations about the girls' fingers. And John had a feeling he knew the answer to this puzzle already. "No, it's not that," he murmured. "I think it means the killer was one of Sherlock's patients."

"Really?" Greg sounded surprised.

"Yeah, when he was a psychiatrist he had a really good track record with treating phobias. Well known for it. I'd check the list of Sherlock's patients for someone he cured of arachnophobia, if the records are there." John grimaced." He must've had an idea of who the killer was from the start." Which he'd known, really. But getting information out of Sherlock was like pulling teeth at times.

"Might be tricky," Greg hummed. Many of Sherlock's collected files had mysteriously disappeared by the time he'd gone to trial. "I'll see what I can do. Thanks John."

"Talk to you later."

John stuffed his phone back into his pocket and rubbed his fingers over the bridge of his nose as if to ward off a migraine. Sherlock hated Culverton. John had sat through enough of Sherlock's sneers about the doctor he considered unqualified to psychoanalyse a gnat to see that. Even Culverton had admitted it when John first met him. But now Culverton was claiming a special insight into Sherlock's mind and getting spots on the news?  Something was off there.

Sherlock wouldn't have spilled his thoughts for no reason. He'd have known that Culverton would immediately want to publicise anything Sherlock confessed to him. Perhaps he'd figured that Culverton was a good a carrier as any for a message he wanted to get out. Was he messaging the killer in an ' _I know who you are_ ' gambit? Was he messaging John?

John leant forward again and flipped to a less crowded page of the Metro. In black biro he scratched out Sherlock's clues.

MR ED RING

GERMAN

FORMER ARACHNOPHOBE

John couldn't think of any other meaning for 'former arachnophobe, so he crossed it out. That was most likely Sherlock claiming the killer had been one of his patients.

Then there was 'German'. The killer was apparently German? A German living in London? John frowned. He wasn't sure about that one, although there was of course the stereotype of Germans being meat eaters, so he wrote that down beside it.

The 'Mr Ed Ring' rang out the loudest as odd to him. It was the unnecessary title, perhaps there to solidify the idea that the killer was male, surely that was redundant? Sherlock could have just referred to him as male. That meant the title itself was important.

Maybe the name was an anagram, although John couldn't see any by glancing at it and he was usually pretty good with words. He wrote it out again with 'mister' in full and still couldn't make anything useful.

Then the thought hit him. 'German'. The German equivalent of Mr was Herr. _Herr Ed Ring._

_Red Herring._

Sherlock had made a fool of Culverton again, and John couldn't stop a small smile from spreading across his face. It was quickly tempered by anger at the waste of police time the non-existent Mr Ring was going to cost everyone, but John was still a little impressed. And perhaps he hadn't lied about the former patient thing. Sherlock had, from the beginning, given the impression of knowing a lot more than he ever let on.

At the hospital, Dimmock was manning the front desk. He looked up with poorly hidden alarm as John approached.

"I need to see Holmes." John never threatened, but his years as a detective had given him the ability to look as though he could threaten if he wanted to, and follow through with it.

"That's not really possible…" Dimmock replied, unwilling to meet John's eyes for more than several seconds at a time. John didn't budge.

"Where's Dr Culverton Smith?"

Dimmock glanced down at his screen. "I think he's at the BBC? I'm not sure. But he's not here."

With careful deliberation, John pressed his hands against the desk and leant closer. "Look," he said, tilting his head. "I just really need to see Holmes. You realise an officer was killed today?"

"Yeah," Dimmock replied, tipping his chin down. "I heard it on the news." His eyes went furtive. "Look, I want to help, but I _can't_. He's just been moved to a new cell, and we're still a little unsure about security."

John leapt at that. "I'll be careful," he insisted. "I just need to talk to him."

 

* * *

 

Sherlock's cell was in a hall of its own behind windowed swing doors, where a short stretch of corridor led to his barred off room. There was a bright stripe of yellow across the floor whose importance Dimmock had taken pains to explain. It represented the full length of Sherlock's reach through the bars. A danger zone.

_Don't cross it, even for a second. He's incredibly fast._

Well, John knew that already.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breathe, gathering his nerves, and pushed the swing doors open.

The differences between this room and Sherlock's underground prison were immediately obvious. This hall was wide and airy, and the air smelt cleaner and fresher. They were nice quarters for maximum security, no doubt Sherlock's prize for giving the fake name to Dr Smith. John's shoes tapped loudly across the hard flooring as he made his approach, but Sherlock didn't move.

His tall, slim figure sat a small desk facing slightly away from the bars, staring out into the grounds. John could see the back of his curly black hair, his pale reflection in the window. He appeared quite calm.

"You again?" The eyes had swung up, focusing on John's reflection rather than the view. His voice was gentle.

"Me again," said John. At his sides, his hands were fisted.

Sherlock noticed, and his lips widened into a quietly pleased smile that chilled John's spine. "They will say we are in love," he drawled, and swung around in his chair to face John completely, his skin abnormally pale in the fading orange sunlight. "Separated by steel bars and unfortunate tragedy, we can only dream about being together. Do you dream about me, John?"

John had nightmares that woke him in the middle of the night with wet eyes, clutching desperately at his gut like it was in danger of spilling out into his hands.

"No," he said instead, keeping his voice level.

Sherlock smirked. "Liar."

"Why, do you dream of me?" John asked with a hint of sarcasm, and Sherlock's eyelids dipped.

"Oh, with astounding regularity. I've mastered lucid dreaming during my stay here." Before John could respond to that, Sherlock's expression turned to one of concern. "Are you alright?" he asked. "You're a little pale. Dimmock should have left you a chair."

"I'll stand," said John easily. "I'm not staying long anyway."

Sherlock hummed disbelievingly, but moved on. "I apologise for Dr Culverton Smith's actions. I understand you've been harassed by the press."

John shrugged. "It's not so bad."

The light movement of his shoulders seemed to awaken something in Sherlock, who immediately narrowed his eyes as if performing a visual x-ray. "You've been staying at Inspector Lestrade's." He sniffed the air. "His wife has left him."

"She's staying at a friend's," John corrected.

"No." Sherlock sounded amused. "She's left him, and dear old Lestrade is too embarrassed to tell you." He drummed his fingers over the table-top and shook his head very slightly from side to side. "Too embarrassed to tell you many things, I expect."

"There was another murder today," John said in retort. "A detective constable."

It was like the temperature in the room had dropped a few degrees when Sherlock's eyes latched back onto him, this time in frustration. The outside world only got through to him as allowed by his carers, and he clearly wasn't as up to date on news as he'd like to be.

"The killer is angry about the press conference denying him victims," John continued. "I guess he feared he wouldn't find anyone to complete his message, but he managed."

Sherlock was silent for a long while. "He's broken his pattern," he said eventually, the corners of his mouth twitching downwards. Disappointment? John couldn't tell.

"He had to."

"Well," Sherlock murmured, and his gaze drifted out the window again. "He won't be too happy about that."

"He isn't," replied John, tipping his chin up as he gathered his wits, and he knew there was only one way to guarantee Sherlock's interest in what happened next. "He's furious. He wrote that he was coming after me next, as I was the one who messed things up for him, after all."

Sherlock's eyes widened, and he leapt to his feet, stalking swiftly to the bars. John felt his stomach clench in fear. "Why aren't you in protective custody?" Sherlock demanded, his white fingers wrapping around the painted black metal and gripping tightly.

"I'm meant to be," John said, and it wasn't really a lie if Greg's house counted as protection. "But I'm here, and I want to know what else you can tell me. And no lies." He cocked his head. "Not like what you told Dr Smith."

"Oh?" Sherlock let the sound roll slowly off his tongue. His eyes had sharpened, like he was waiting for something.

John wondered if this was some sort of test. "The name you gave him," he explained. "It's an anagram for red herring."

Then Sherlock seemed to glow with pleasure. "Well _done_ , John."

"You're leading him along," John accused. "Just so he makes a fool of himself. Do you realise how many resources you've wasted that we could have been using to catch your copycat?"

Sherlock sighed dramatically and pulled away from the bars, then started to pace the line of his cell in slow, measured steps. "One has to have something to do for entertainment down here, John. It gets dreadfully dull otherwise."

"You know he'll throw you back underground once he realises what you've done."

"I don't care. I've already seen what I wanted to see." And his gaze drifted out the window again.

"Look!" John wanted to scream at him. "I've come here to ask for your _help_."

"Well, obviously." Sherlock glowered at him. "It's not like you show up for the pleasure of my company."

Like he thought that would ever be enough? John hoped he was being sarcastic. "You know who the killer is," he said, stepping closer, and that really got Sherlock's attention.

"I'm not going to tell you." Sherlock came to an abrupt halt directly in front of John and drew himself up to his full height. He stared down at John, standing ready to spring like there were no bars between them, and John had to resist the powerful urge to step back and cede his ground. "I happen to like it here, and as you said, Dr Smith will throw me back underground if he finds out I've lied to him for my own entertainment."

"I'll talk to Dr Smith." John was on the verge of begging. He kept his tone reasonable and tried to hide that vulnerability, but he probably failed. "I'll let him take credit for the name."

Sherlock seemed more attentive of John, all of a sudden, like a shark that had just smelt blood. He let that plea permeate the room for a while and took his time to drag his eyes over John's tense figure, then suddenly his face turned to something cold and calculating. "And what do I get?" he asked.

"I don't know, Sherlock." John flexed his hands uselessly by his sides, the tension in his body unbearable even as the man across from him stood still and unburdened as if he were carved from marble. "… My continued existence?”

Sherlock looked almost disappointed. "Yet again, you overvalue your worth in my eyes. What use to me is your existence if you never come to see me?"

John couldn't help his confusion. "What do you mean?"

"If you catch him," said Sherlock, "there'll be no reason for you to return here. We both live out the rest of our days apart, and I get nothing for my troubles."

John's swallow was audible. "I have nothing to offer."

"Yes," said Sherlock pointedly, patiently. "You do."

John knew what he meant. He'd mostly avoided the pop psychology articles about Sherlock's apparent interest in him that popped up every so often, laughed at them, even. It was only incredibly recently that he'd realized some of the concerns might have been valid.

But Sherlock was behind bars. He couldn't physically hurt John. His information could lead to the arrest of a man who'd hacked up six people, and was planning to do the same to John.

"I'll visit," John offered. His future was the only bargaining chip he had. "I promise."

Sherlock pale eyes buried into him like fishhooks. "How often?"

"Once a year," John proposed, but was instantly rebuffed by Sherlock's scoff. "Okay, once every six months."

"Once a month," Sherlock haggled, and John balked.

"Travelling here isn't cheap, you know."

"I still have money." Sherlock waved his hands out the window as if to gesture to the outside world he no longer had a place in. "I'll pay."

John knew Sherlock could pay; the man wasn't exactly poor. But that wasn't the point. "Once every three months," he offered, "and you don't spend a penny. A compromise?"

He tried, for the moment, to ignore what that offer would cost him.

Sherlock didn't smile, but John knew he was pleased. With the fading orange light behind him, he looked like a man who'd just tasted something marvellous, and now wanted to relax and savour it. If the bargaining over his free time had been a test, John wasn't sure if he'd passed or failed. Either way, Sherlock came up the winner. "Fine," said Sherlock, and then he stood there in silence like an overgrown hawk, just watching him.

John blinked hurriedly. "So," he asked, after a considered pause. "who is he?"

Sherlock squinted his eyes at him, and then twisted gracefully to the side and went back to pacing. "Tell me, John," he began, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. "How did you figure out I was the killer all those years ago?"

John followed his movements, realising with a stab of depression that Sherlock wasn't going to give up the name so easily. He glanced at the hard floor between his feet, thought back. "It was lots of little things. But I only ever had suspicions, and even then I didn't trust myself," he admitted. "It was literally the moment you attacked me that I realised I was right."

"You have excellent instincts," Sherlock declared. "It's a shame you don't rely on them more. What were your thoughts, when I stabbed you?"

John started to feel a little ill. That memory wasn't a place he was eager to go back to, and his scar twinged as he remembered white pain blossoming in his stomach, Sherlock looming over him with an almost apologetic expression and John's blood all over his hands. "Shock, mainly," he confessed. "But there was a part of me, deep deep down, that had been expecting it. I'd already phoned Greg, when you left to get my coat." John swallowed, the words tumbling awkwardly out of his mouth. "He said he could hear the whole thing happen on the phone while he was driving over. Apparently I didn't even scream."

"You didn't." Sherlock had stopped walking, and stood worryingly close to the bars. "I thought you were remarkable."

"I didn't have enough air in my lungs, or I would have," John told him. It hadn't been bravery, or stoicism.

Sherlock looked at John like he was seeing something else there. An older memory superimposed over John's body. "I remember the sounds of your skin and muscle tearing were louder than you were. You were so quiet."

"Have you ever had a near death experience?" John asked in a rush of breath, toeing the yellow line. Sherlock's eyes raced over him, fascinated.

"No," he said, with a tone of regret, "but I've worked with patients who have."

"They say your life flashes in front of your eyes..." John paused, and took a shaky breath. "That didn't happen to me. I… I was in shock. I was in the present, right there, not looking backwards or forwards. It was just…"

"Us," finished Sherlock, his voice a whisper.

"And then when you put me on the floor, everything went very black." He rubbed at his eyes as the memories rushed back, lying curled on his side on Sherlock's carpet with blood leaking from his gut and staining everything red. He remembered being too weak to move, then too weak to open his eyes. "I woke up in hospital thinking I was dying. The nurse had to come and reassure me that I'd gotten out, that I was alive, that you were locked up forever. I'd cheated death. I could live life to the full."

"But that wasn't how you felt," Sherlock breathed, " _was it._ "

John shook his head and clenched his eyes shut. He'd never talked about this. It was only when he clenched his hands into fists that he realised they were already pressed protectively over his stomach. "I felt like I'd died on your carpet that night, but somehow my body was still moving. I was so tired. I couldn't live. I just… existed."

He should have stayed further from the yellow line. Lost in memory, he forgot his caution.

Sherlock's hands shot forth almost too quickly to be seen, and he grabbed John by the lapels of his coat and yanked him flush against the bars. John yelped in shock and squirmed, taken completely by surprise. He gripped the bars and pushed back but Sherlock's hold hadn't lost its strength during those years. With a wrench of his arms, he pulled John close with frightening violence and John could feel that hot breath over his skin.

"How about now?" Sherlock snarled. He jerked harder, and John's chest pushed painfully at the bars. " _Right now_. Do you feel like you're just _existing_? Just meandering down a life that doesn't fit you anymore?"

John's heart thudded loudly in his chest, and he couldn't think, his brain an empty loop of _run, run, run!_

His eyes were level with Sherlock's teeth.

" _I_ make you feel alive," Sherlock declared, and one of his hands came down like a clamp over the back of John's neck.

John scrabbled back in shock, scratching at the flesh that pinned him to the bars, but Sherlock didn't react even as John's nails scraped lines down his skin, staring raptly down at John as if witnessing something fascinating. With John pressed helplessly close, he leant in closer, nostrils flaring as he took a deep inhale next to John's cheek.

"You'd feel dead without danger, John," he said in that deep, deadly voice, and when John shuddered his lips quirked in amusement. "You live your life entrenched in it, fighting bravely against it, but always, always succumbing in the end to that rush, that high of adrenaline. Danger is part of you, it defines you, it's what pushed you down the path of every decision you've ever made in your life. It led you right to me, John, and you know what?"

His lips brushed John's ear.

"I'm the most dangerous thing you'll ever know."

With John pinned by the neck, his free hand slipped through the bars to drag possessively down the fabric of his shirt, long fingers spread widely. John hissed sharply and gave a futile jerk backwards as the hand slid over his scar, fingertips traced reverently over the hard line of tissue across John's abdomen, when suddenly an alarm sounded through the air. John recognised the blare with a distant relief. Maybe someone had finally glanced at the security cameras.

Sherlock heard it too, his eyes flicking up momentarily from John's face to acknowledge it, but it only made him clutch tighter. "You told me you didn't need looking after," he murmured, "but we both know that's not true. A madman threatened to kill you today. You're frightened. I understand that." He reached up to stroke a hand through John's hair, and John winced at the fingertips scraping over his scalp. Sherlock breathed in, almost tender. "But you needn't worry. I'd never let him hurt you. You're mine, John, do you understand that? And nothing, _no-one_ , hurts what's mine."

His eyes were so full of promise that John had to look away.

"What's he doing in here?" howled Culverton's distant voice. "Get Holmes off him!"

The swing doors smashed open in a stampede of footsteps, and for a moment, John thought Sherlock's grip might break him.

"I'll be seeing you," Sherlock hissed, and then yelled out as they were wrenched apart by orderlies dressed head to toe in thick protective gear. Sherlock's hand grasped possessively, and his nails left deep scratches across the back of John's neck as he was torn out of reach.

"Get the copper out of here!" roared Culverton. "And stand back Holmes, or I'll have you tranquilised --"

The shouting voices faded as security dragged a shaking John out of Sherlock's part of the hallway, the swing doors slamming behind him. They all but tossed him from the hospital. Once he was outside, shuddering with shock and adrenaline in the cooling late afternoon air, he stumbled out of view and collapsed against the red brick of the hospital. Almost immediately, his legs gave out. He slid to the gritty concrete and let his head fall forward.

He couldn't stop shaking. The broken skin over his neck stung bitterly in the wind.

He pressed his own, smaller hand over the itching scar that marred his stomach, and fiercely blinked the tears out of his eyes. Sherlock had told him nothing at all

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the amazing Pretty Arbitrary who stayed up late for days to beta this monster of a chapter ^_^

In the early evening light, a silver car pulled up outside a London family home. Through the glass, the driver's posture was weary. Eventually his head fell forward, eyes clenched shut, his grip on the steering wheel turning knuckles white.

Despite his best efforts, Greg Lestrade had found nothing to identify the killer in the grimy flat where DC Hopkins had been murdered and mutilated. They knew now that the house wasn't the killer's, just a borrowed location. The landlord wasn't renting the rooms out, and the neighbours didn't remember anyone who lived there. They were the type who were rarely home, however, and hadn't been present when Hopkins was attacked. He'd probably died screaming, and no-one would have heard.

Greg grimaced and yanked his keys from the ignition. The threat against John's life had initially spurred him on, but now, at the end of a long, tiring day, the dread that had slowly been creeping into the back of his mind since the beginning had dug in and taken hold. He couldn't see a way out. A search of Dr Sherlock Holmes's patient files, those that were left, had revealed no Ed Ring. John wasn't answering his texts.

The house was dim. No light shone out from behind the curtains. Had John already gone to bed or...?

Keys biting painfully into his clenched fist, Greg picked up their dinner and half-jogged to the front door to let himself in. His hands had a slight jitter as he turned the lock and opened the door to the darkened, silent hallway. There was no response to his entry.

"John?"

His voice echoed emptily. He shut the door behind him and swept off his coat, still glancing around in hopes of some sign of movement - John dozing in an armchair, a shift from upstairs.

"John? Are you there?"

Greg left the takeaway in the kitchen, flicking on the lights as he went. He was momentarily afraid, each time, of the lamps illuminating a message on the wall like the house he'd just left. But the walls were bare.

John wasn't upstairs either, and Greg's wariness devolved into wretched panic.

"Don't you dare," he croaked, shakily calling up John from his mobile. The call went straight to voicemail, which meant his phone was either off for some reason, or out of battery. "Shit." Why would he turn his phone off? What if he'd been-- "Shit, shit, shit…"

He slammed his hand against the wall, harder than necessary, and the sound almost covered the break in traffic as a car came to a rumbling stop outside. His throat tight, Greg rushed to the window and peeked behind the drapes to see the black cab sitting patiently on the pavement next to his house. The passenger door swung open.

John stepped out, wrapped up in his coat with the collar popped over the back of his neck, looking rumpled, his usually expressive face stony and closed off. He was searching his pocket for keys as he walked to the house, staring blankly ahead, as if lost in his own thoughts. Greg felt some of that panic lift, slightly, and he bolted downstairs as the front door swung open.

John stepped into the lit hallway, neatly shutting the door behind him with a tired sigh. He looked up in alarm at Greg's approach and his mouth dropped open, eyebrows shooting up.

"Oh," John said, exhaling calmly as he recognised Greg, shoulders slumping. "Um. Evening."

"What the-- where were you?" Greg asked, paused halfway down the staircase. "I was going to call in a search!"

John's face reddened. "I'm sorry," he said, gaze dropping to the carpet. "I should have texted."

"Why didn't you answer your phone?"

John looked confused for a moment. He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out his mobile, hefting it in hand as if testing its weight. "It must have run out of battery."

"For god's sake, John." Greg scrubbed his hand through his hair as he pocketed his phone. "I thought… you know…" It was hard to spit out his fears. "I thought the worst." He stepped down from the staircase to join John in the hallway, arm slightly outstretched to guide John into the kitchen. John tensed up immediately, brows furrowed. Greg blinked, flashing back to the bloody threat against this man's life over the wall. He could understand John was feeling vulnerable, but still, he shook his head in bewilderment. "Where were you?"

John just stared at him, only now he looked slightly guilty, and Greg _knew_.

"You didn't…" His voice faded, almost disbelieving. "You went to see Sherlock, didn't you?"

John's mouth made a murmuring shape, then went thin. "I had to."

"I told you to come back here!" Greg exclaimed - too sharply, he realised, when John bristled. He lowered his voice. "Why did you go to see him? What could he possibly tell us now after all this? It's not good for you, John -"

"Fine time for you to start caring about what's good for me," John retorted, and he pushed past Greg on a beeline towards the kitchen. He seemed hurt by something. He hadn't taken off his coat yet, even though he must be too warm in it, and he was moving in that very direct, determined way that meant he felt unsafe.

"Of course I care," Greg said, following. "I've always cared."

John had ignored the cooling takeaway and was filling the kettle, his eyes flicking over to Greg in a flash of blue-grey as he shut off the tap. "Remind me," he said, firmly setting the kettle back onto its stand and flicking it on. "Who was it that wanted me to see Sherlock in the first place?"

"Now hang on…"

John shook his head, one of those irritated smiles stretched tightly across his lips. His fingers tapped the counter and he stared angrily at the kettle. "You only care when it suits you. I guess I can't really blame you. Everyone else is the same." His voice trailed off into something bitter.

"John, I'm genuinely sorry." Greg stepped further into the kitchen and felt his heart drop as John winced. What had happened? "I know we've been, well, using you from the start, really. If there'd been any other way to talk to Sherlock, I'd have taken it -"

John didn't want to hear it, shifting around in his pocket to pull out a torn newspaper page. He smoothed it against the countertop as the water boiled beside him. "Ed Ring is a fake name, and the killer's probably not German. Sherlock lied to the doctor."

Greg couldn't believe it. "What?" he asked incredulously, stepping forward. John wordlessly slid the paper to him, then turned to get teabags from the cupboard. Greg looked over the scrap of paper, the clues spelt out in John's neat block capitals, then the letters swapped and rearranged. Herr Ed Ring. "Sherlock admitted to this?"

"Pretty much," said John, pouring the tea with deft movements. He was exacting with the milk, and when finished pushed one of the cups towards Greg with downcast eyes. His body was still as wound up as it had been in the Hopkins scene that morning - Greg could see the tension coiling under his every movement. John had been stretched taut for long enough that it must be starting to hurt by now.

Greg sighed and dropped the paper to the counter. "Damn." He pressed the heel of his palms to his eyes, the weight of hours spent working himself to the bone for nothing sagging across his shoulders. "We've just spent all day trying to chase this guy down…"

John slurped thirstily at his tea. "You should probably tell people before any Ed Rings start getting harassed," he said, and then broke off to turn away and yawn.

"You need sleep," Greg told him, once he spotted how bleary John's eyes were.

"It's fine," John said, taking another frazzled sip of tea. "I'm alright."

He obviously wasn't. He'd been on edge since he'd walked in. He hadn't been alright since, god, since Greg turned up on his doorstep with half-hearted friendship and a favour to ask.

 _"Do you trust me?"_ Greg had asked.

_"Of course. You saved my life."_

A drink of tea in silence turned John from merely tense to frail and brittle. He looked quietly haunted, and his gaze kept drifting out the window to the back garden. He probably needed a moment alone, after a day of police work and public transport, but Greg couldn't quite bring himself to get up and leave the small man alone in the cold kitchen. "I really am sorry, John," he offered, a truce. "For… everything."

John's eyes met his own over the rim of the teacup, and then dropped. He set the china down with a click, and the movement of his head let the soft skin of the back of his neck peek out. There were several long scratches, in parallel, as if John had been clawed into. Greg didn't say anything, and John didn't seem to notice. "I know," he said wryly. He pushed the takeaway bag towards Greg. "I'm going to charge my phone and turn in. I'm not that hungry."

Greg nodded as John got to his feet, dumping the dregs of his tea down the sink. "Sleep well."

"You too."

 

* * *

 

John lay on top of the sheets in his pyjamas, arms behind his head, entirely failing to sleep. The room was dark and quiet, but there was a faint glow behind the curtains from streetlamps, and a steady rumble from traffic outside. Beside him, on the bedside table , the power light on his phone switched from orange to green. Fully charged.

Counting his breaths almost helped. He'd drifted into something like a meditative trance, but when he shut his eyes his mind stayed immovably conscious, unwilling to let him escape so easily. He thought of the dead girls, the ambitious DC Hopkins. His neck itched from disinfecting the scratches, and whenever the jagged lines touched the pillow, they stung. He should probably sleep on his side.

His phone started to vibrate, buzzing loudly against the wood. Years as a police detective meant John wasn't startled by late night calls, so he merely groaned, rolled to his side, and answered.

"Hello?" he mumbled, yanking the charger out of the phone and slumping onto his back. His scratches stung anew, and he rubbed at them, irritable.

There was a clunk of momentary bad reception, and then a huff of breath. "Hello, John."

John felt a painful, clenching blow to the heart, like his chest had suddenly hollowed out.

He snapped bolt upright, covering the mouthpiece before Sherlock could hear his panicked exhale. His pulse raced through his body like it was anticipating a sprint, and he had to swallow down his breaths as he clutched the phone closer. "… Sherlock?"

"Good evening." The world went silent. All he could hear was Sherlock's voice, spilling intimately into his ear like the man was right beside him. "They think I'm calling my lawyer about the implications of the copycat case, but I'd much rather check on you. How are you?"

"How did you get my number?" John demanded, his hand twisting tight in the quilt.

"Obviously, it hasn't changed from when I knew you five years ago. I suspected as much. You're complacent with these sorts of things, and you lag behind technology's advances."

"You memorised my--" John cut off with a scowl, pressing his fingers over the bridge of his nose. "You know what? Never mind. Just leave me alone, Sherlock."

"Try saying that and meaning it, and I might."

John could almost hear the smirk.

It was true, John had gone out of his way to seek out Sherlock earlier, but that didn't mean he was willing to be around Sherlock all the time. He'd go mad, staying in contact with someone who could look through your eyes and see straight into your brain.

His mouth had gone dry, and he had to swallow to be able to speak. "I'm hanging up."

"You're upset." Sherlock sounded concerned, although he'd always faked that emotion easily enough. "Did our earlier encounter stress you so much? I apologise. I only meant to reassure you."

"Reassure me?" John hissed down the phone. "I thought you were going to bite my ear off!"

"No you didn't," Sherlock fondly admonished him, as if John was teasing, and his tone was familiar in a way that made John feel intensely uncomfortable. "Well, not really, anyway." The voice smoothed out. "How are you feeling?"

"About what?" John asked stiffly.

"Your future," said Sherlock. "However much you have left of it."

John couldn't tell if that was a joke or not. "I've plenty left," he retorted, carefully brushing his fingers over the edge of his scratches. He pulled his hand away sharpish once he realised what he was doing - he had a bad habit of touching his wounds whenever he felt unnerved, and felt vulnerable enough as it was without stimulating more nervous feelings.

Wounds. The only marks John had on his body were the ones Sherlock had put there.

"You might not have much," Sherlock reminded him, "if the spider gets his way with you."

"If he wanted to kill me, he probably shouldn't have told me about it beforehand," John pointed out, with more confidence than he actually felt.

Sherlock noticed, and snorted in derision. "So you're on your guard."

"So are the police."

"Very good." Sherlock sounded amused. "I bet you feel safer already."

John didn't, but he also didn't see the need to start pointing out his vulnerabilities. Since seeing Sherlock for the first time in five years, the psychiatrist had never failed to leap on every hint of weakness John had revealed to him, and pull at it like an unravelling scarf until there was nothing left but memories like raw nerves. He ripped into John's mind with ruthless efficiency, all the while acting protective of John, and the resultant clash of emotions that John felt whenever Sherlock talked about safety was hard for him to parse.

Exhaustion reasserted itself, and John's posture slumped. He lay back down and turned to watch the door for movement, but Greg evidently hadn't heard any conversation. Sherlock breathed in his ear, silent, perhaps trying to deduce what the noises were. It was only when John stilled that he continued.

"But this is all very short-term," he noted, his voice a low rumble through the speaker. "Say you do survive this, say you catch the spider, whatever the odds. What do you see then in your future? Is there a path for you now? Some easy steps to take for your heroic return to the force? So you can work alongside the people who use you, on cases that make you hate humanity? Or is the road ahead a foggy, lonely one that has no purpose? Dull, grey, _boring_ …"

John had wanted to leave the police even before Sherlock's attempt on his life, and what he'd seen on his short trip back, despite the generous consultant fee Toby had offered at the start, hadn't convinced him to return for good. "You know," he said stiffly, "I was fine in my retirement. I'd be quite happy to go back to it."

Sherlock made a disappointed sound. "Don't lie to yourself, John. It's beneath you."

John shut his eyes. "I'm too old for crime-solving."

"So you're content to let the world spin on without you?" A thought probably impossible to Sherlock, who was still involved in the world outside despite having been locked up in a mental hospital for five years. "I doubt it." 

"What do you think, then?" John asked. His voice was near a whisper as he heard Greg move about downstairs.

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. "Oh, I agree," he said. "I think that after all this wraps up you'll probably drop out and go back to your dreary little life, trying and failing to keep up with friends, writing those cheap short stories of yours for the paper. But you'll get older and greyer, your mind will go cloudy, and over the years you'll come to regret it. You'll look out the window of the cramped flat that you hate, stare out into the dismal London sky and wish you'd chosen differently."

John hated how he could see it all too easily, and retorted, "Just because _you_ might think it boring, doesn't mean everyone will. I miss my safety. I liked not having to fear for my life all the time, odd as that may sound to you."

"That's a lie." Sherlock was smirking again. "I've already told you how obvious your love of danger is; this is the most alive you've felt in years. Retirement would be the end of all that's vibrant about you."

"Maybe you've been misreading me," John attempted, but Sherlock just scoffed.

" _Please_ ," he said dismissively.

John frowned, hesitant over asking for advice the way he used to, years ago. "You think I should join the police again?"

"No," Sherlock corrected. "I think a change of scene is in order. A new life, perhaps, in another country. A better life." He paused contemplatively. "With me? Now there's a thought."

John's jaw dropped open in shock, and he lifted himself up onto his elbow. "Are you _joking_?" he asked, incredulous.

"Of course, we could always make some stops along the way," Sherlock continued, undeterred by John's reaction. "I know there are people out there who've done wrong by you. We could restore some balance to the world."

In the past, John might have entertained the idea of quitting the force to work with Sherlock; just watching him put together evidence and solve crimes in minutes made John himself a better detective. But that future was long gone. "No," he said firmly, simply. It wasn't something he wanted to argue.

"I could make them scream for your forgiveness." Sherlock's low voice savoured the words, and it made John's skin crawl. "The criminals whose cases you never quite managed to crack. Your parents who abandoned you."

"Sherlock, I mean it, _no_."

"That fat DCI who was happy to use you. And I could make Lestrade _beg_ \--"

"Stop it!" John hissed. "No, alright? _Never_."

Sherlock just listened to his frantic breaths for a moment, and John hated himself for being so easily wound up. "You've convinced yourself that it's wrong, haven't you?" Sherlock said, and there was something like pity in his voice. "Dealing out your own justice. Using death as a solution."

"Of course it's wrong!" John winced. He'd never had to argue the case against murder before. "It's… unnatural."

"Unnatural?" Sherlock laughed. "Really John, violence is the base of human nature. Our history is filled with war, and torture, and suffering, because the impulse to hurt those that we perceive as enemies is a powerful one. No, to be unnatural is to deny these impulses and live life in constant repression, hating and fearing the few who won't."

It was terrifying to John, lying very much alone in a strange, dark bedroom as Sherlock's voice slipped gently into his ear, advocating pain, murder. John shifted against the sheets, pulled them tighter around his body, and he shook his head emphatically even though Sherlock couldn't see it. "You're wrong," he insisted, then swallowed painfully against a tightening throat. "People on the whole are good, decent…"

He cut himself off before his argument was even fully formed. It sounded so weak to his own ears, it was pathetic.

"Killing is natural," Sherlock retorted. "We've been doing it as long as we've existed. Sometimes violence is the only way. You know this. You've felt it."

_Blood spilt over old wood._

John sprung upright, his fingers clenched so hard around his phone that it hurt. "Stop it," he wanted to threaten, but with the distress in his voice it came out as almost _begging_.

Sherlock drank in his pain with relish. "Lestrade, Gregson, all that lot, they think you're harmless, that they can control you and use you. But I know different." Sherlock's voice was as penetrating as his gaze, pushing, forcing its way into John's head. "Deep down, you think like I do."

John felt ill. "I would _never_ -"

"You hate the rules and regulations, the red tape around your work that hinders true justice."

It was true, all true, and John hated it. "Stop it. Shut up."

Sherlock didn't. "You know I'm not lying. Haven't you often thought that you could do more to help people if you did your work on the _outside_ of the law?"

"No." John's voice was desperately firm, and his chest rose and fell fast - he was breathing too fast. "You think you know me, but you don't. You haven't a clue."

He heard Sherlock's low chuckle. "No-one knows you like I do, John. One day, I'll have to show you."

There was a sharp clunk that rang out too loud in John's ear, and then the call disconnected.

 

* * *

 

"I need to change my mobile number," John told Greg over breakfast next morning.

Greg nodded at him over the scrambled eggs and toast. "Reporters?" he asked, looking overly concerned.

"Yeah," John replied.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was no longer entertained by the view outside his window.

After his indulgent phone call, with the echoes of John's voice still whispering around his ears, he turned his back on the night outside and dragged his chair close to the bars. There he could touch the metal that John's sweat-slicked palms had pushed against, recall the heat of his skin against Sherlock's own. John had a lovely subtle skin chemistry that sometimes clashed with the cheaper brands of soap he used, or whatever muck Greg Lestrade had loaned him. But Sherlock could easily fix that.

He didn't sleep that night; didn't need to. He sat by the bars and ran through his mind map of the hospital layout, the procedure used to strap him to his gurney, the door codes that the orderlies thumbed in to move about the secure areas. Culverton would move him back to his underground cell in the morning. It was inevitable, after the truth about Ed Ring came out. He'd be livid and red-faced with all his thwarted ambition, and take Sherlock's comforts away as easily as he'd given them. There'd be other petty torments. After Sherlock had so easily stripped Culverton of his dignity, Culverton would be eager to demonstrate his power.

Not that Sherlock was planning on staying to find out how.

The painted metal was chill under his fingers, and the memory of John's frightened struggle, pinned against the bars, flashed to the forefront of his mind. John had been cautious when he first walked in, his deep eyes following Sherlock's every movement, widening ever so slightly whenever Sherlock moved too quickly. It had taken effort to coax him forward, to lower his guard, step by step towards the yellow line.

The reward had been entirely worth it. Holding John, smelling him, what he'd been doing, where he'd been staying - the sudden flood of information was more than he'd ever been able to discern through glass. Then he had the pleasure of feeling John shudder in his arms, scenting that heady tang of blood and fear as Sherlock reached down and traced his fingers over the scar tissue. It was a mark that John would never be able to scrub off, and the thought was oddly comforting.

John had been so brave, so afraid. Sherlock would look after him.

He'd been sitting there for hours when there was a clash of swing doors, distant.

Sherlock's head swung up. He heard footsteps and the thin sound of wheels on linoleum, but breakfast wasn't due for another few hours, and there was no one who worked this shift who walked with that kind of gleeful energy.

Doors clashed again, closer this time. Sherlock knew who it was. He stood and slid his chair back to the desk, then turned to stand straight-backed in the centre of his cell, staring past the black lines down the centre of his brightening corridor to the swing doors at the end.

A trolley bearing a covered tray pushed through the doors. The light slid over the metal, then skinny hands, then Jim Moriarty was walking towards him, lit by the dawn light.

"Morning, doctor," he said cheerfully, his dark eyes glinting. He was dressed, bizarrely, in an orderly's uniform. As he spoke, the scar from the black tarantula bite bobbed over his adam's apple.

Sherlock watched the marred skin, then took in all of him. There were few differences. Moriarty had aged well. He wore his black hair slicked back, like a predator.

"Surprised to see me?" Moriarty pushed the trolley forward till it hit the bars with a clank. He watched Sherlock, his grin unwavering.

Sherlock stayed still. "On the contrary, I'd have been more surprised if you didn't show up."

Moriarty had the decency to laugh. He toed the yellow line, keeping his skinny limbs just out of reach. "You look nice like this, all wild-eyed and watchful. I'd quite like to keep you in a cage myself." He jabbed a thumb at the trolley. "I brought you some early breakfast. You look too _thin_. Ugh, a shadow of yourself."

The tray still sat in easy reach beside the bars, where Sherlock could grab it. Sherlock considered it, then turned away to sit at his desk. "I'm not hungry."

"Aww, pity." Moriarty swayed on his feet like a crow, his image caught in the reflection from the window. "I made it myself, you know."

"Are we alone?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course, dear heart. I can control the entire security layout of this place from here." He pulled out an iPhone and tapped thoughtfully at the screen. "Right now, this camera is on a loop of you staring out the window like you want to commit suicide out of it."

Sherlock leant forward and glanced down at the concrete. "A futile task from the second floor."

"You'd have broken bones, yeah, but maybe you'll get lucky and land on your head?" Moriarty slid the phone back into his pocket and shook his head from side to side, his grin widening. "Did you miss me, Sherlock? Did you?" He paused, then sighed dramatically when Sherlock didn't react. "Come _on_. You can admit it. You're kinda pleased to see me."

Sherlock spun around in his chair and ran his eyes down the line of Moriarty 's body, then back up, slowly. "I like you better when you're tied down," he said, tilting his head slightly.

"Of course you do, you pervert." Moriarty gestured around him, palms outspread. "Have you been enjoying the show?"

Unlike Sherlock, Moriarty's murders always had been a show, a display. From the very beginning with the two unconnected deaths in the papers, Sherlock knew that Moriarty was trying to send him a message, proof of his superiority. And by killing John, where Sherlock had failed, he'd demonstrate it unequivocally.

"I'm less impressed with your latest venture," Sherlock replied. "Skipping to the end? You've always been a tad overeager."

Moriarty raised his narrow eyebrows. "You've never flipped through a book to see if it was worth wasting your time?"

"I suspect you're not cut out for this." Sherlock crossed his ankles and relaxed back in his chair, studying Moriarty. "It was never your style to get your hands dirty."

"Oh, and they've been _muddied_." Moriarty bounced on the balls of his feet, pleased. "I actually found myself enjoying it. It started as an intellectual exercise and now I rather look forward to it." He clasped his hands behind his back and started to walk the length of the yellow line as Sherlock's eyes followed him. "It's a nice contrast to my more, shall we say, 'hands-off' consulting."

"I'm interested in how you chose them."

Moriarty shrugged the question off. "Well, I knew I had to go for the pretty girls to attract Johnny's latent guilt to the case."

"No." Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "It wasn't a purely logical decision. You enjoyed it."

Moriarty pushed his bottom lip up. "I enjoy beauty like I enjoy anything rare, Sherlock. It's one of the reasons I liked you so much." He paused in his stride and glanced up at the ceiling with an open-mouthed smile, obviously caught in memory. "And I like wrecking rare things. There's something wonderfully decadent about it."

"A rather shallow goal," said Sherlock disparagingly. Moriarty smirked at him like he'd smirk at a rude child.

"Oh? And what were you aiming for, Doc?"

Sherlock shrugged, nonchalant. "The betterment of society."

Moriarty grinned, his eyes crinkled at the edges. "An odd goal for a murderous cannibal, huh?"

"Perhaps." Sherlock knew his own contradictions. "Boredom also played a part, I won't deny." He stretched out his pale hand in the sunlight, tilted it. Moriarty watched, and Sherlock remembered the smell of John's blood under his fingernails. "Did you eat yours? The papers wouldn't say."

"I have my chef prepare meals using the meats I provide. Poor thing's getting rather _frightened_." Moriarty's mouth quirked. "I've never kept a chef before. They're rather high-maintenance."

Sherlock could picture it, a prisoner chained up in a kitchen for Moriarty's amusement. He'd seen odder things, the few times Moriarty had invited him into his world. "Personally, I'd never threaten someone who was involved in making my meals."

"All it takes is the right incentive." Moriarty sounded almost disappointed by the ease of it. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his orderly uniform, and tilted his head like a bird. "People are all so easy, really, when you strip away their other options." The dark eyes glinted, pleased. "But you'd know that already, of course."

Sherlock raised his fingertips to his lips. "Of course."

"I was admiring the way you handled that, actually," Moriarty said, and his tone was genuine. "You had poor Johnny boy dragging himself up to this lunatic asylum over and over, begging for clues on behalf of all those useless coppers. I bet you found that hilarious."

"He can be entertaining, yes."

Moriarty leant forward. "Did you make him cry?" he asked, referencing one of the more truthful rumours about how Sherlock treated his visitors.

"Considering his past, I can't take all the credit." He remembered the arresting sight of John's wet eyes, the way his pale eyelashes had clumped together as he blinked, before he'd looked away to give the man privacy. Drawing that story out of John, detail by agonising detail, had been like chipping away at John's civilian softness to reveal his hidden steel. The man who walked out of the hospital that day had been different than the one who walked in, like a broken bone that had grown back stronger. It made Sherlock feel something close to pride. "He didn't cry needlessly."

"I don't know how you stand him," said Moriarty, pulling a face. "He's so _miserable_. Just looking at his sad crumpled-up mug makes me want to slit my wrists."

Sherlock felt a flicker of annoyance. "Does a person expressing emotions that you, personally, cannot feel, make you uncomfortable?"

"Oh, stop with the psychobabble bullshit, you moron," Moriarty spat, his expression twisting.

Sherlock smirked. Moriarty's unbalanced brain chemistry had always been a sore spot. "I never interfered with your inclination towards the conventionally attractive idiots who you'd been denied in your youth, so there's no need to get jealous over my own preferences," he said easily. Then his voice softened, despite himself. "John intrigues me."

Moriarty started stalking up and down the yellow line, shoulders hunched, his eyes fixed on Sherlock, black and violent. "Okay. Okay," he repeated angrily under his breath, creeping back and forth, his head swivelling to stay pointed at Sherlock. After Sherlock's admission, the game had changed into something more personal. Perhaps it was jealousy, although Sherlock never pretended to know Moriarty's mind when it came to that sort of thing. "It's not just John, though, is it?" Moriarty probed.

Sherlock peered at him, interested.

"That would be too _boring_." Moriarty's grin was vicious. "You want him at his worst. He was a dispensable thing, an amusement, really, before you saw him dying. You like to see him _suffer_. You admire him when he's beaten down, damaged beyond repair."

Sherlock didn’t deny it. "If you saw it happen yourself, you would understand."

Moriarty laughed at him. "Oh, I plan to."

After years of practicing psychiatry, and then handling Culverton's intrusions, Sherlock had mastered his poker-face. He merely raised an inquiring eyebrow. "You're going to damage him?"

"I have a veritable evening of entertainments planned." Moriarty paused by the trolley, and he had a very pleased smirk twitching at his lips. "He'd go running to you for a quick disembowelment if he had the slightest idea of what I was going to do to him."

"He already comes running to me," Sherlock told him, his eyes drifting to the bars John had touched, but his expression unchanging.

"Wishful thinking, Sherlock," Moriarty sneered. "He only comes to you when he's told."

"Believe what you will," said Sherlock, shrugging his shoulders.

Moriarty went back to his pacing, a skip in his step like he'd just won something. "You know," he said lightly, "I think you've gone a bit mad in here." He grinned at Sherlock's expression. "Don't get me wrong, I love it! It suits you."

Sherlock tapped his fingers against the arms of his chair, then swiftly stood. "I always thought fear suited you perfectly."

Moriarty's eyes widened greedily. "I bet you've _really_ gone a little cuckoo, huh?" he needled. "Nothing to do all day but terrorise the workers and reel through old memories until even your best moments are tired and played out. _Boring_." He stepped over the yellow line, grasped the black bars as if he were the one in the cell, and stared up at Sherlock, drinking in the sight of him. "You haven't even got any fellow crazies around to talk to. Do you ever get lonely, Sherlock?"

"I was originally kept in a cell block near other patients." Sherlock took a few steps closer, his curiosity rising as Moriarty didn't move back. "I was there a month, then they moved me."

"Why?"

"For their safety."

Moriarty grinned at him, fingers flexing around the painted black. "Oooh," he savoured. " _Ominous_."

Sherlock was close enough to grab him, now. Instead he clasped his hands behind his back, tilting his head down to stare into those mad eyes. "Why are you here?"

"Oh Sherlock." Moriarty shook his head sadly. "Can't you put that big old brain of yours to the task and _think_?"

Sherlock frowned. "If you're looking for feedback, I must register my disappointment."

" _Please_. I'm doing a much better job than you." Moriarty grimaced and wiped his hands on the trousers of the uniform. "And no, I didn't hijack the security systems of a mental hospital slash prison just to beg for your advice, dear heart. Although god knows you put a high enough value on your opinions to think that plausible."

"You're here to brag?"

The bars squeaked a little as Moriarty leant a shoulder on them, the grin stretching over his pale lips again. "Baby, I just wanted to see you like this," he crooned. "Imagination doesn't really do it for me anymore."

Sherlock's frown deepened at Moriarty's arrogance. "You're about to deny me my last victim, and now you're here to what, rub it in?"

Moriarty's expression turned into something dark, delighted. "I'll film his squeals for you, if you like."

Something snapped, and possessive rage rose in Sherlock's throat. With speed and strength he snatched at the small man through the bars, but Moriarty had been expecting it. Instead of wiry flesh, Sherlock hit the bars, and his fingers grasped at empty air. He snarled in frustration as Moriarty hovered just out of reach.

"Oh yeah," Moriarty groaned, thrilled. "Yeah, I definitely like you like this. Did you have any idea who I was, Sherlock, when you treated me?

Sherlock gripped the bars, angry despite his best efforts. He forced himself to back down, faking calm, but his eyes and gritted teeth would give him away. "Of course," he said snapped. "That's why I did what I did."

Moriarty tugged his uniform neatly into place, like he would a business jacket. "Well, know that in the five years you've been locked up, I've changed." His dark eyes glimmered. "In your absence, I've grown into something a lot more powerful."

"Yes, I followed your organisation's exploits with interest," Sherlock admitted, and Moriarty's mouth twitched, gratified. "Control over such a vast network would be an impossible job for a lesser mind, I recognise that. Although I've always disliked your character, I couldn't help but admire your mastery as a _conductor_ , shall we say, orchestrating such complex crimes."

It was just the right thing to say. A frisson passed through Moriarty like he'd just shivered. "Oh," he said sweetly. "You charmer."

Sherlock pressed his head to the bars. "In comparison, your current work is like a child sawing incompetently away on the violin," he bit out. "Tedious and painful to watch."

Moriarty couldn't hide the flicker of irritation at the edges of his expression. "And yet," he said with biting calm, "I've been successful." He stepped up to the line, face clearing. "I'm free, while you're all frustrated and bored behind bars. There's _no-one_ out there who can stop me. I'm so above them all that I sort of feel like I'm cheating, really, whenever I make my play." His voice went sing-a-song, and he grinned up at Sherlock from under his eyelashes. "I could get you out of here in a second, you know, if I ever felt the urge."

"Try it," Sherlock dared, "and see how long you last."

"You'd come after me?" Moriarty licked his lips. "Or would that only be if I threatened your little toy..?"

Sherlock tensed. "You've already threatened him."

"I'm looking forward to this last hunt." Moriarty scuffed his toe playfully over the line. "I think it's going to be quite challenging. I bet you wish you could join in."

"Join in?" Sherlock scoffed. "I've been leading the police investigation from the very beginning. _I'm_ the reason you couldn't find your perfect victim to match the day I killed that wretched musician."

"They haven't caught me yet though, have they?" Moriarty waggled his eyebrows. He was teasing now. "And they won't. Definitely not in time to save Johnny, anyway." He leant in a little closer, daring Sherlock to make a grab for him. "I'll tell him you say hi, okay?" he offered, voice lilting. "I'll have my fun with him, I'll break him down. I'll make him bleed, and beg, and then I'll eat his _heart_ \--"

Sherlock lunged for him again, knowing even before his chest hit the bars that Moriarty had been toying with him. His hands grabbed at nothing and Moriarty stepped away, giggling to himself.

"I wiiin," Moriarty crowed, walking back towards the swing doors. He rose a hand in a farewell. "So long! Have a nice life, sweetheart!"

The doors clashed shut behind him.

Sherlock couldn't stop himself from straining at the bars. He pressed his weight behind them, pushed them, then shook them in senseless frustration. There was no point. That wasn't the way out. Sherlock knew the way out, and trying to bend thick steel wasn't it. He heard the doors sliding past each other as Moriarty made his escape, the cameras no doubt flicking back to normal in his wake.

The tray in the trolley made little scratching noises from underneath the tinfoil. Sherlock didn't have to look to know what was in it.

 

* * *

 

"We want to move John to a temporary safe house," said Toby, his eyes almost glazing over John to settle reluctantly on Greg. At the side of the room were two members of the witness protection program, a woman from the administrative side and an older, larger bloke who Greg imagined would be some sort of bodyguard. John had spotted them as soon as he'd walked into Toby's office, and Greg could now recognise his reaction, the too-familiar air of resignation that settled over John like a physical weight.

He tore his eyes off John's weary posture and met Toby's gaze. "John's safe at mine," he explained. "It's secure, only the police know he's with me, and on top of that we've got the plainclothes patrolling outside to keep an eye out for suspicious behaviour."

"There's evidence that the killer has access to police information," the woman said, raising her eyebrows pointedly at Greg. "Whether through a mole, or through hacking, the killer may already know John's location."

"If the killer knows what we know, how will moving John change anything?" Greg argued. "If nothing else, John knows my house and the area around it well, so he can at least _defend_ himself better than if he was in the middle of nowhere--"

"Why now?" John interrupted, sitting straight-backed in his chair, hands loosely curled on his lap. He lifted his chin and stared directly at Toby. "What's changed that makes you think I need more protection?"

Toby glanced downwards, and a grimace stretched over his face. "We've been getting… pictures."

It had started that morning with emails. Staff began to get odd messages that failed to be blocked by the spam filters, from anonymous, untraceable accounts. Toby had a pile for John to look at, if he wanted, and despite Greg's misgivings, John headed straight for it.

John was the shortest in the room, and he looked very small as he stood in the corner of Toby's office and flicked through the printouts, his mouth a sharp straight line of tension. His hands twitched slightly whenever he went to turn the page, hovering over images of open heart surgery utilising ancient, vicious tools. They didn't know where the photographs had come from, or who the poor subjects had been. The text was the same with each attachment: "Soon, Johnny."

After the emails, which were still trickling in, the fax machines had started whirring in unison, spilling the images out onto the floor in high-contrast greyscale that rendered the blood in black pools around the tortured flesh. The machines had been quickly turned off, and the sender still hadn't been found.

Greg flipped through one of the stapled stacks on Toby's desk and felt a hot stir of nausea that he couldn't hide.

"And that's just a fraction of it," said Toby.

Greg pushed the stack away, and rubbed his hand through his hair. "It's impossible to find the sender?"

"Pretty much," Toby answered. "The techies told me that everything, all of it, was routed through proxies. Untraceable." His eyes narrowed sharply. "It's a threat, Lestrade. We should treat it as such."

Greg turned to John beside him, who stared back with a guarded expression. "Greg, I'm putting you in danger by staying with you."

"We're all in danger here!" Greg said, but John just shook his head. Greg knew that stubbornness. John had made a decision, and any further argument would just have him balk and dig his heels in deeper.

"I'm going."

"John--" Greg had to _try_.

"It's _safer_ ," said John firmly, and as if to put the matter out of his mind, he dropped the stack of emails onto the desk, all the bloody photographs of shattered bones, skin and muscle ripped open. Turning to the officers from witness protection, he squared his shoulders. Greg could see the ugly scratches over the back of his neck. "Where are you going to put me?"

"We have several options," said the woman, her eyes darting up to Greg. She didn't trust him. "Although, for safety, it would be better just to talk it through with you and DCI Gregson."

John nodded, and Toby turned to Greg with raised eyebrows. "I guess that means you're dismissed, Lestrade," he said. "Back to work."

"Yes sir," said Greg. He stood slowly, and John stared up at him with a certain sort of soulful sadness in his eyes. Or maybe it was regret. When John rose with him, Greg was reminded of standing on John's doorstep for the first time in years, of barging into his life and wrecking it with one selfish request.

"Thank you for letting me stay with you," said John earnestly. "I know I'm hard to be around sometimes--"

"I understand," said Greg quickly, flashing a weak smile. He didn’t remind John that it had been he who wanted John to stay. "It's fine, I know you're going through a lot."

John nodded, smiling tiredly in return. He had very dark circles under his eyes. "I'll see you when all this is over," he said, sticking out a small hand. "We'll get a drink or something."

"Sure." Greg took the hand and shook it firmly, feeling the warmth seep through his skin. This was more of a goodbye than either of them were pretending. There was a chance, and not entirely a small one, that John wouldn't be coming back.

He pressed a hand to John's shoulder and squeezed, perhaps a little too hard, but John didn't visibly react. He felt wiry under Greg's fingers. He looked as if he were steeling himself for something.

Toby coughed loudly.

"Goodbye, John," said Greg, stepping back and letting his hands fall awkwardly to his sides. "Stay safe."

"You too," said John.

 

* * *

 

Dimmock was rarely called into Dr Culverton Smith's office, but every time, he was surprised by the unusual luxury of the room compared to the rest of the hospital. Large open windows on the southern side looked out onto one of the nicer areas of the grounds, and now let in the warm morning light over the expensive furniture, the leather bound books. The sky was blue, but there was a distant gathering of grey clouds. It would be raining by the time Dimmock had to go home.

Beside him, Anderson, a fellow orderly, was clicking his knuckles behind his back and staring at the shrine of certificates on the opposite wall with a faintly superior expression. Dimmock knew him by dubious reputation. Anderson was in his mid thirties with dark hair and eyes, his long nose giving him an almost rodent-like disposition, and an unfortunate nasally voice.

Culverton sat at his desk, a dark look souring his face. He had his hands clasped on top of the polished wood, almost too tightly, squeezing furiously in redirected rage.

"I have a job for you," the doctor said, mouth pursed.

In short, clipped tones, he told them about Sherlock's trick. He didn't need to. It'd been all over the news; Dimmock had even heard it on the drive to work. Ed Ring, the name Culverton had been touting on news shows with absolute certainty, was a lie, a practical joke played by a sociopath for nothing but his own amusement. Now Culverton was a laughing stock, and he wanted revenge. "I want you two to move him back underground," he finished decisively.

"Sure," said Anderson. "Right away?"

"Hang on," Dimmock interrupted, attracting two angry pairs of eyes. "No offense, Anderson - but Dr Smith, Sherlock _hates_ Anderson."

"Well, Sherlock will have to suck it up then," snapped Culverton. "I want him back in that pit right away. No-one makes me look a fool like that and gets away with it…"

They left the doctor stewing angrily in his office, and Anderson grabbed Dimmock by the shoulder.

"It's fine," he said, raising his eyebrows. "If that snotty bastard gives us any trouble…" He tapped his taser, used to subdue violent patients. One shot, and they'd be completely incapacitated, losing control of their own muscle function as electricity flooded the nervous system. Anderson had tasered Sherlock twice before; Dimmock wasn't sure he could say the second time had strictly been provoked.

Sherlock despised him nearly as much as he did Dr Culverton Smith.

"It'll be okay," Anderson said, rolling his eyes at Dimmock's uncertainty. "It's been years since I've seen him. He's probably forgotten all about _that_."

 

* * *

 

The first thing that triggered Dimmock's sense of alarm was Sherlock's behaviour.

At the end of the brightly lit corridor, the tall, pale figure stood to welcome them. They wheeled the modified gurney through the swing doors, heavy duty straps splayed over the top and the muzzle mask to stop him biting resting by the head. Sherlock's pale eyes moved over the gurney without reacting, then he smiled politely at the two orderlies, looking calm and extremely well-rested.

"Good morning," he said graciously, as if the cell was a house and they were standing on his doorstep.

"Dr Smith gave us orders to move you back to your old cell," drawled Anderson. His hand rested pointedly over the taser. Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly, but Anderson didn't seem to notice. "He didn't like that trick of yours. He's very angry."

"I'm no stranger to Dr Smith's unimaginative punishments, and I'm unsurprised by his reaction," said Sherlock. "He has two emotions, you see. Smug, and furious. Doesn't bode well for his creativity."

"We're here to transport you back down," Anderson continued. "Now," he paused. "You're going back downstairs today whether you play along with us or not. I'd advise you to make it easy on yourself and do what we say. Any funny business--" he tapped the taser, "and we'll just put you out and take you down there anyway."

There was a flicker of a smirk across Sherlock's face, but it vanished just as quickly. "Of course," he said, dipping his head. "I understand."

"Turn around and grab some steel." Anderson pulled out metal handcuffs and flicked them open with a well-practiced movement.

"Whatever you say, Anderson."

Sherlock walked up to the bars and turned around so his back faced them, his white hands slipping through to grasp the painted metal, then he slid to sit neatly on the ground. His fists stuck out behind him, and Anderson strolled over to cuff them together outside the bars. He squeezed the cuffs a little too tightly, and the metal dug harshly into Sherlock's wrists. Sherlock remained perfectly still as Anderson grabbed the chain and tugged sharply at the cuffs, testing them. He was restrained.

"Open the door, Dimmock," barked Anderson, and grabbed the gurney while Dimmock fiddled with the keys. The door clunked, and then swung open, and the two orderlies wheeled the gurney into Sherlock's little cell.

It was a sparsely decorated place, as Sherlock, the hospital had quickly learned, could turn practically anything not nailed down into a weapon. But the window and comfortable bed made the place a palace compared to the dank underground cell he'd been confined to for the last few years.

Sherlock watched them from the floor, as observant as ever, but like Dimmock had feared he seemed especially focused on Anderson. "I'm surprised to see you here, Anderson," Sherlock said conversationally. "Don't you usually work in the more administrative side of things now?"

"Oh, I volunteered," said Anderson with a smirk.

"Of course you did." Sherlock fixed him with an unnerving stare. "And it's been a year or so since you were last working on the wards, electrocuting patients, so maybe Dr Smith had forgotten what a liability you were when he assigned you to this job."

Anderson bristled. "Shut it, Holmes," he spat. Dimmock wanted to intervene before Anderson got trigger happy, but instead he busied himself by looking over the gurney with more care and attention than was really needed.

Sherlock, of course, didn't shut up. Adverse reactions just entertained him. "I used to wonder, years ago, what sort of person would be so small, so pathetic, that the only way they could make themselves feel stronger was hurting the mentally ill. Then I met you, and my perception of the average quality of the human race dropped _dramatically_."

Anderson snatched up the muzzle from the gurney, thrust it at Dimmock, his teeth clenched. "Muzzle the dog, Dimmock."

A shiver of fear ran down Dimmock's spine as he took hold of the hard plastic, cold under his fingers. Sherlock's sharp gaze swung over to him, and he tilted his head, dark curls shifting.

"No trouble," he ordered Sherlock, and he kept most of the nervousness out of his voice.

Sherlock smiled at that. "I won't bite you."

Behind him he heard Anderson fussing with the gurney, yanking at the immobilising straps. They'd lock the door, something that always had Dimmock on edge, load Sherlock up, and once he was secure they'd call for extra help to get him down the stairs. It was a transfer procedure they'd only ever used a few times, usually without incident, but Dimmock felt more anxious than usual. He knew he had no need to be. Apart from the insults directed at Anderson that, frankly, Dimmock had already been expecting, Sherlock was behaving perfectly.

He stepped towards the man on the floor, the muzzle held out in front like a shield, ready to snap it around Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock tilted his head up in readiness, his eyes half-lidded and vacant, as if he were looking at something else. The cage slipped over the lower part of his face, and buckled securely around the back of his head. Dimmock tested the straps as Sherlock's icy stare penetrated his skin. He couldn't bite, now.

Then Sherlock moved so quickly that Dimmock honestly didn't see what happened. One moment he was crouching over the cuffed Sherlock, testing the mask, the next, he was being dragged to his knees, cold metal clamping around his wrist to keep him there.  Sherlock's grin behind the mask was deadly.

"Anderson!" Dimmock shouted, once his brain had finally caught up to what was happening. He tried to get to his feet, but Sherlock was faster, wrenching back to attach the other metal cuff to the bars, trapping him. Sherlock held up his own unrestrained hands and flexed his long fingers, letting the rudimentary lockpick he'd made from a little strip of metal fall to the floor.

Dimmock tugged pointlessly at the handcuffs, the metal sliding up and down the bars, and watched uselessly as Sherlock spun and leapt at Anderson with a snarl. The two men fell to the floor, Sherlock on top, and it became obvious very quickly that Anderson never had a chance against Sherlock's violent, inhuman strength. Straddling Anderson's hips, he grabbed Anderson by the ears and smashed his head to the concrete over and over, so fast that the movements blurred. Anderson's cries turned pitiful.

When Anderson had stopped struggling, Sherlock sat up and reached back to unbuckle the mask and toss it aside. His eyes flickered over Anderson's face, cataloguing the fear and desperation with clinical interest, then his fingers wove into Anderson's hair, clenched tight.

His grin exposed his sharp teeth.

There was a constant clang of metal on metal as Dimmock tugged with all his strength at the cuffs, his wrist bleeding, trying to get as far from Sherlock as possible in the tight confines of the cell. He couldn't speak, didn't want to yell for help in case he attracted Sherlock's attention, but whimpering breaths kept escaping from his lungs in wretched bursts of air.

There was a moment of silence, and then Sherlock abruptly wrenched Anderson's head back, exposing the vulnerable throat.

Dimmock couldn't stop himself, he screamed in terror as Sherlock crushed his teeth around Anderson's windpipe and ripped his head from side to side, gnawing like a wolf around the stretching and tearing of muscle, cartilage and skin. Anderson's screams turned liquid, like he was drowning, blood spurting from his throat over Sherlock's face and neck as Sherlock mauled him. Sherlock's gnashing teeth found something, and Anderson's shrieks were instantly silenced to frothy gurgles. The gobbet of flesh was spat out to the side, obviously not up to the standards of Sherlock's palate.

Then Sherlock took the taser from Anderson's belt.

He stood , his face and chest plastered with red spatters, blood and froth clinging around his mouth. Dimmock clamped a hand over his mouth to stop himself from screaming, yanking his bloody wrist against the bite of the cuff over and over just to move as far away as possible. He couldn't shield his ears from the sound of Anderson's dying, liquidy splutters, the convulsions of his body against the floor as electricity slammed through his system again and again. He squinted his eyes shut and pleaded to something, somewhere, to be spared, while the horrifying noises echoed through the ward.

Sherlock stopped when Anderson's limbs flopped to lifeless stillness, wiping the sweat from his brow. His forearm came away smeared with blood, and he flicked it to the floor.

His eyes unerringly found Dimmock. They were piercing ice-blue, almost shining from the blood-red mess of his face and wild dark curls.

"Please," Dimmock begged all but soundlessly, curling into the bars.  He couldn't look at Sherlock's face, or the floor, the red smeared everywhere.  He kept his eyes fixed on the pristine white of his own uniform.

Sherlock knelt by him, the taser at his side, and he stayed there until Dimmock could bear to look at him. Sherlock's body thrummed with ferocious energy as if re-energized by the violence, and his red face was so close that Dimmock could almost taste the blood himself. The bright eyes were calculating; measuring Dimmock's worth.

He felt like he was being judged.

"You planned this, didn't you," Dimmock stuttered through a thick tongue, horrified as it dawned on him just how thoroughly played they'd all been. "You gave Dr Smith the fake name in exchange for this room, to give you an idea of our procedure to move you around. So that when he found out it was fake, and wanted to move you back…" Dimmock swallowed thickly, met the bright eyes, "you'd know what to do to escape."

"Yes," said Sherlock simply. "Now give me the keys, and the hospital access codes."

Dimmock threw over the keys, then hesitated. "You want to write down all the codes?"

Sherlock's eyes dropped to Dimmock's chest. "You keep a little book," he said, "because you can never remember them." It wasn't just Dimmock, many of the staff did, but he still winced in fear and embarrassment as Sherlock's strong fingers snatched the book from his chest pocket. "Never mind," he remarked. "I forgive you for not telling me. Tell me, is Dr Culverton Smith still in his office?"

Dimmock slowly shut his eyes. "Yes." His voice was a whisper. He knew now what he'd just sentenced his employer to.

"Good." He heard Sherlock stand. "Thank you, Dimmock."

There was a powerful impact to the back of his skull, then the world went black.

 

* * *

 

Dressed in an orderly's uniform with a carefully washed face and his recognisable curls slicked back over his skull, Sherlock swiftly moved through the hospital, as if he were urgently required elsewhere. The alarm had yet to be raised, and Sherlock was an expert at casual disguise. Only one nurse in a lonely corridor recognised him, but he managed to knock her unconscious and stuff her in a medical closet before she could cry out.

Luck was on his side.

Hospitals were laid out in a very predictable fashion, and Sherlock had spent enough time working and training in them to find his way around any. He used Anderson's ID and Dimmock's code books to move to the administrative area on the ground floor, and felt the thrill of each step towards freedom buoy up in his chest. Years of planning finally had the chance to be put into effect, and Sherlock appreciated the timing.

He pulled on the first fire alarm he saw. The blaring horn sounded through the building and sprinklers almost immediately soaked his uniform. The staff would have to assemble at the back, along with the non-violent patients, while the fire brigade checked the building. It was a workable distraction.

A helpful sign pointed him towards Culverton's office. Sherlock arrived just in time to see Culverton struggling with his coat as he exited the door. He dashed forward and shoved the shorter man back in, shutting the door behind them both as Culverton squawked in protest.

"What are you doing, you impudent little--" Culverton began, then froze in terror as he recognised Sherlock's face.

Sherlock gave the man time to process exactly what was going to happen to him.

Culverton made a run for the door, but Sherlock grabbed him by a flailing arm as he passed and forced him down with a shoulder lock. He was taller and stronger than Culverton, hard and determined where Culverton was middle-aged, soft and weak. The man scrabbled weakly, but Sherlock easily kept him pinned.

"You're insane," spat Culverton, struggling furiously with his stringy muscles.

Sherlock had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. "Yes," he drawled. "Obviously."

The thin veneer of self-righteousness fell away when Culverton found himself pinned too tightly to move, with Sherlock's teeth bared inches from his face.

"I'm not going to kill you," he hissed, cutting off Culverton's attempts at pleas. "Instead, I'm going to give you what you've always wanted."

Culverton's eyes bugged out, and his mouth stuttered.

"Fame," Sherlock promised. "Everyone will know who you are. I'm going to give you a face that someone like you, a powerless, impotent psychiatrist in a suit, can use to frighten others. You'll be the next Nurse Leighton, a ruined face that turns the stomach of anyone who sees you. Just so you know what it's like, to be a _thing_ that's passed around others as a warning."

"Oh god, no," snivelled Culverton, his face red, eyes and nose streaming with terror. "Please--!"

Culverton had a pocket knife that matched his gold pen. Sherlock found it in his inside pocket and flicked open the largest blade. He didn't have long.

As Culverton screamed for help, Sherlock stabbed into his pink mouth with the knife, hooking the wriggling tongue and yanking it up. Culverton's face scrunched tightly in torture, and he shrieked and sobbed as Sherlock lunged down and clamped his teeth deep over Culverton's tongue, crushing his jaw down as the taste of blood exploded in his mouth anew. He tossed the knife aside, too impersonal, and ground his teeth into the tongue until it was partially severed from the root.

It gave Sherlock immense satisfaction to rip out Culverton's fat tongue, and he savoured the slow give of muscle snapping with little popping noises until it was entirely in his mouth, the blood dripping onto the bawling man beneath him. Culverton howled as Sherlock chewed viciously for a few moment, then turned and spat to the side.

His attack then turned into something more frenzied.

After years of imaginings, Culverton's agonised sobs and gibbers were every bit as refreshing as Sherlock had imagined.  Every rip of his teeth in that soft crying face released part of the frustrated hatred he'd built up for the man who'd tortured him, experimented on him, and no doubt made profit from him. Each bite was satisfying, the initial resistance and then _pop_ of skin, the fresh burst of blood against his tongue. If not pressed for time, Sherlock could have done it for hours.

Culverton's face was an unrecognisable mash of red by the time Sherlock shoved off him.  One of his ears was dangling; his nose no longer had any shape at all. He didn't move when Sherlock got to his feet and wiped his face with the curtains; unconscious from the pain, the shock.

Sherlock took the doctor's wallet, his car keys, and pulled the coat on over his uniform. That disguise would see him through for now, and he had time to properly prepare himself once he'd gotten far enough away from Berkshire. Moriarty would be expecting him. John, loathe though the man would be to admit it, was relying on him.

It was not a game Sherlock was willing to lose. Not when the prize meant so much to him.

"Goodbye, Doctor," he said, and swept out of the room, pausing only to snatch up his favourite old newspaper on the way to the door.

 

* * *

 

Hugh Denver was a police sergeant who worked as a bodyguard for witness protection. He was 35 years old, but looked a lot older, and he kept himself in rigorous fighting shape as top priority. Right now, he was heading up a small team far south of London, protecting the vaguely famous John Watson from a very inventive threat on his life.

His officers discreetly roamed the street outside a small flat. Inside, Denver and Watson were alone. They played cards to pass the time while they waited for news. Denver won most of the time. He suspected Watson was letting him to stay on his good side.

It was a tiny place, really, with two bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen so cramped that it bordered on unusable. Watson was in there now. Denver could see him behind the frosted glass, his small figure a green blur by the kitchen counter as the kettle boiled. He was a tricky one. Police officers often were, even retired ones like Watson. When faced with their imminent death, Denver was used his charges showing fear, bewilderment, anger. He wasn't entirely certain how to handle resignation.

Denver preferred to know as much about those he protected as he could. It made all the difference, especially in dangerous situations, knowing beforehand how someone was likely to react. But Watson, whilst polite, was remarkably distrustful, even of fellow officers. His team had all been briefed on Watson's situation, and we'd seen parts of it in the paper anyway. The caginess made sense, considering what he had gone through, but Denver wished the man would open up. They were on the same side, after all.

The frosted doors slid open, and John came out with two cups of tea. He'd had a drink, despite the early hour; there'd been a bottle of blended whiskey in one of the cupboards. As good as alcohol is for blotting out unwanted thoughts, it makes you careless. John was hiding it, sipping his tea as soon as he sat down to hide the smell, but the cupboard handle was in a different position. He wondered whether or not to bring it up.

 Denver sipped at his tea, which was perfect. Watson made a nice cuppa, a domestic thing that reminded him very much of his girlfriend. Perhaps it was a sign of how much he missed her, but the association made him feel a little more understanding towards Watson.

"Nice tea," he said, with a grin.

"Thank you," Watson replied, meeting Denver's eyes over the rim of his teacup.

The buzz of his headphone startled them both out of any potential conversation that didn't involve poker.

" _Denver. Turn on your telly to the news._ "

"What was that?" Watson asked immediately, his blue eyes guarded.

"One of my officers," Denver answered. "Have you seen the remote?"

They found it, and Denver turned on the telly. He flicked over to the news and what he saw nearly made him drop his cup.

" _In shocking news today, Sherlock Holmes, a former psychiatrist who was imprisoned on charges of murder and cannibalism, has escaped the hospital that held him for five years._ "

Beside him, Watson turned pale, and his eyes went wide.

The screen showed images of the hospital with two fire trucks on the lawn, and a few police cars. " _Holmes, who recently created a stir by fraudulently naming 'Ed Ring' as the killer on the well-publicised copycat case, was due to be moved to a higher-security cell when he overpowered the orderlies attempting to restrain him, killing one of them. Security cameras show the attack, although due to a technical fault, the cameras were not broadcast to security in real time. Warning, this footage is violent._ "

On blurry CCTV cameras, they saw the familiar cell, and Sherlock Holmes's frightening speed. In seconds he had cuffed one orderly to the bars and leapt at another, attacking him with incredible ferocity. The footage cut off before it became a snuff film.

"Jesus," murmured Denver, while Watson sat very still beside him. "Jesus Christ. Do you think they're working together? Holmes and the copycat?"

"No," said Watson, but he sounded uncertain.

The screen cut back to the newscaster, Sherlock Holmes's imperious mugshot glaring down at them beside her. " _Before escaping the hospital, Sherlock Holmes set off the fire alarms to confuse the staff, and attacked Dr Culverton Smith. Dr Smith is in hospital, and we will be reporting on his condition as the information becomes available. Five years ago, Sherlock Holmes was found guilty of killing and cannibalising nine men, as well as the attempted murder of John Watson, one of the officers who had been working on his case. DCI Tony Gregson of the Metropolitan Police Service gave us this statement:--_ "

The photo changed to Gregson's face mid-speech, taken at the press-conference on the copycat killer. " _Sherlock Holmes is a very dangerous man, and we're working hard to find him. If you see him, do not approach him under any circumstances. Information leading to his recapture will receive a reward._ "

The screen changed to the hotline numbers for people to call with information, as well as details on the reward. As the reporter repeated the story for new viewers, Denver turned to Watson.

"Do you think he'll come after you?" Denver would have to radio in for more support.

"I don't know." Watson shook his head. He looked numb. "I have no idea. I never do, with him."

 

* * *

 

Hours passed. Day turned to evening, and it had started to rain.

Sherlock Holmes drove down the motorway in a stolen car. It was expensive, fast, and the windows were smoked for added privacy. He wore black, a Spencer Hart suit, a dress shirt, and Italian leather shoes. They were what he'd worn to his trial five years ago, still in the prison storage, and his body had barely changed so they still fit.

He felt like himself again.

The rain battered at the windscreen. Sherlock shifted up a gear and moved into the fast lane. In the back seat was a duffel bag full of stolen hospital gear, drugs, restraints, and other equipment. He was no longer unarmed.

His fingers itched against the leather of the steering wheel, too dry from when he'd scrubbed off every last trace of blood in a park bathroom. He could still taste it, heavy over his tongue. The flavour was satisfactory, but it made him want something a little tastier.

Moriarty would know where John was stashed away the same way he knew everything - hacking, and intimidation. Sherlock couldn't hack, and intimidating someone would have just alerted everyone to his whereabouts. He'd snuck outside the police station and people-watched for an hour, before he saw him, a soft-bodied administrative assistant with a computer tan and bad eyesight, out for a lonely smoke break in the greying weather. There were signs of stress, he hadn't been sleeping well, and had recently upped the number of cigarettes he'd smoke a day. Working on a current case, then. The access pass suggested he'd have access to confidential information.

If anyone knew where John was, this man would. He'd have typed it in for his overworked boss.

Sherlock had let the man take one last drag on his cigarette, before dragging him out of view of any cameras and efficiently extracting what he needed to know. He wondered how long it would take for the police to find the body.

Moriarty, with his taste for the dramatic, would make his move when the evening turned to night, when the rain went torrential. Sherlock didn't have long.

 

* * *

 

In a luxurious apartment south of London, Moriarty watched the streets on his monitors like a spider surveying his web, on the lookout for a trapped fly. He drummed his fingers on the sleek black desktop, nearly jittering in excitement.

A few of his men were lounging around the rooms, watching telly or cleaning their weapons. Their lives were chaos and killing. Every moment in-between was just waiting for the next mission.

In the kitchen, a chef shivered where he was chained, waiting for the arrival of little Johnny Watson. Bring him dead or alive? Moriarty hadn't decided yet.

The clock was approaching eleven. His men were getting restless.

"Calm down, boys," Moriarty crowed, tapping in a few lines of computer code, the finishing touches to his masterpiece. "Are we ready?"

The Colonel, his long body resting in that watchful way by the front door, glanced over his men and then nodded. "We're ready."

"And," Moriarty announced, his hand hovering over the enter key, "here we _go_."

 

* * *

 

John had been watching telly when there was a low hum, and then the entire street plunged into blackness.

A powercut.

In the kitchen, Hugh Denver's headseat filled with obfuscating static. John watched him failing to get in touch with his team, and slowly exhaled, suppressing the panic that was rising in his chest. In the pitch dark, he reached behind himself and felt where he'd stuffed his illegal handgun. His fingers slipped easily around it, the comfortable grip of a weapon he knew well.

 _Bring it on_ , he thought vehemently. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Pretty Arbitrary for her thorough beta-ing (you are the best!) and sentence suggestions ♥

The security footage was silent, but one could easily imagine the screams as the young orderly's face twisted and he tugged, terrified, at his cuffed wrist. In the centre of the projected screen that spanned nearly from floor to ceiling, a tall white-clad figure straddled another orderly's dazed body. His pale hands reached behind his head to unbuckle the mask that muzzled his mouth, movements slowed by a sense of anticipation, a desire to draw out the pleasure of what came next.

Mycroft turned away from the screen. "Is there a plane waiting for him?" he demanded of the room at large, his cold, impassive face lit by the flickering footage as his brother tossed the mask aside and descended, tearing into the throat of the orderly with his teeth.

"Yes sir," one of his workers replied, as unmoved by the violent video as his employer. "At Strand airfield."

Mycroft nodded. "Good."

In the second, deeper basement of a publishing house in St Petersburg lay the heart of a criminal empire whose influence spanned the globe. It was an empire that saw everything. To the outside world, the elder Holmes was Ambrose Fell, head of Diogenes Press, publisher of literary works and translations.

Mycroft did indeed dedicate part of his business to books, and he could talk about the subject at length if anyone cared to listen. In truth, Mycroft's speciality was omniscience. In his world, knowledge was power, and he was the most powerful in it.

He and Sherlock hadn't been close in years, although he'd followed with interest his brother's life and career. His friends. His more… _intimate_ relationships.

With that knowledge, Mycroft had reason to suspect that Moriarty, a young career criminal with an ever expanding sphere of influence, was heavily involved in Sherlock's escape. He'd discovered evidence that the irksome 'spider' had hacked into the hospital's security cameras, leaving them suspiciously out of sync. Sherlock had been granted the time to act, and whether he'd known it or not, he'd taken it.

It had been very irritating, after years of Sherlock's refusal to work for Mycroft's organisation, to see his growing involvement with Moriarty's _mob_. Luckily, that infatuation hadn't lasted long. Sherlock had always reacted disagreeably to relationships where he was offered everything on a platter, instead placing value on things that were difficult to obtain.

Perhaps that was the reasoning behind his fascination for the ex-detective.

None of that mattered anymore. Sherlock was free for the first time in five years, and he'd be looking for an out. Mycroft, ever gracious and forgiving, would provide one. Finally, he could start making his life's work a _family_ business.

 

* * *

 

The streetlights lining the road had abruptly extinguished as if the rain had doused them, but the ride in the back of the van had left Colonel Moran's eyes long adjusted to the darkness-- unlike the plain-clothed police officers that had been patrolling the streets. Struck blind, they were helpless to resist attack.

One by one, Moran's men took them out. Moran moved forward in the cold shadows, out of the torrential rain that hammered his clothes and into the dry space under a bus shelter, where he caught sight of a hunched figure. He snuck forward, hearing the whisper of static from the officer's hacked earpiece and the man's panicked breathing.

_"D-does anybody read me?"_

Moran reacted like any predator.

He sprung forward and hooked his arm around the man's neck, squeezed. His muscles strained, iron-strong from a rigorous exercise routine. Possessing a lethal body was part of his job.

It was a silent kill. Moran hefted the body back into the rain, dragging it out of easy sight between two houses. The officials would find it later, but that didn't matter. After this job was done, their presence would hardly go unnoticed.

"I think that's everyone," came Sun's voice through Moran's own earpiece.

"By my count, yeah," replied Bern. "Moran?"

Moran pressed gloved fingers to his earpiece. "We're moving in."

The safe house was an apartment building several stories high, conspicuously ordinary. No-one was home apart from the targets on the third floor, who were no doubt already panicking. John Watson would have a personal bodyguard in there with him, but there was little one man could do against many.

Moriarty recruited his agents mainly from gangs, disgraced ex-military types, and men just out of prison. Whether they were too violent for normal jobs, or were just out of other options, Moriarty took them in with a smile and a salary. His organisation was the only place for men like Moran.

The driver was currently circling the block, waiting for the signal to pick them up once they'd secured John. While Bern sprinted to the front door to drill open the lock, Moran crossed the street with Sun and Holt. They approached the back of the safe house, where a fire escape stretched up into the sky, black and slick with rain.

Moran took point, hooking the ladder of the fire escape down and easily hoisting himself up. Sun kept up, but Holt struggled at the rear, his face crumpled up against the rain. He was young, clumsy, one of Moriarty's latest acquisitions. Moran grimaced when Holt swore loudly, his foot slipping off the slick metal. He’d been a street thug, eager to join the organisation, but Moriarty had really thrown him in the deep end with this mission. The boss always claimed to have a good eye for talent, and reckoned he could make something out of the kid. He'd been unceremoniously shoved into Moran's team, and it looked like Moran was going to have to pick up the slack.

At the third floor, they swung onto the balcony and waited by the curtained window while Bern drilled the lock. Rain battered at them mercilessly, leaking down the back of Moran's neck, a line of icy chill. He didn't rub at it. Physically, he stayed perfectly still, but in his mind he was racing through the floor-plan of the safe house. Once Bern had the front door, they would jump through these windows into the living room, facing the kitchen.

Young Holt beside him wasn't shivering from the cold, but he was jittery with nerves, his hand squeezing around his gun (he was a good shot, despite his other weaknesses), one of his legs shaking against the ground. Sun elbowed him sharply to make him stop.

"The door's unlocked," came Bern's voice. "I'm in."

Moran raised his hand and swivelled it forwards. "Go."

They kicked through the windows and jumped in. Glass shattered and crunched under Moran's feet, and he pushed the curtains aside to duck into the living room, gun raised. He let his eyes adjust to the darkness indoors, the heat of the flat tickling at his skin. With little sight, he heard his own breathing and the hammering rain outside, but soon his ears picked up static, then quiet cursing from the bodyguard trying and failing to contact his team.

John would have been told to hide. Moran crouched low in the shadows and watched for any sign of him. Sun had also blended in, but Holt's restless fidgeting kept him from disappearing. Moran could see the glint of his gun in the darkness.

The bodyguard spotted Holt too, and he'd clearly given up hope on getting any back-up. "Police!" he called out desperately, pointing his gun in Holt's general direction. He couldn't see properly. "Stand down!"

Despite his shortcomings, Holt knew how to pick out a spot with good line of sight. As soon as he'd been spotted, he raised his gun and took swift aim, when suddenly a loud gunshot cracked from the left, the muzzle flash illuminating John Watson for a split second in the darkness.

Holt fell to the ground with a shout, his arm flying up as he attempted to aim, shooting blindly through his pain at the bodyguard. Despite the suppressor, the shots echoed loudly throughout the room.

"John! Run!" yelled the bodyguard in an agonised voice as he stumbled, fell.

Moran could see John now, a slightly paler shape against the blackness of the room, his outline stiffening as he was momentarily torn between staying to help the bodyguard, or running. He caught the moment of John's decision, a quick intake of breath, before John steeled himself and vanished down the corridor.

Moran pressed his earpiece. "Target's heading for the exit," he muttered. Then, to avoid potential trouble with Moriarty later: "Sun, help Holt."

Silently, he shadowed John down the carpeted corridor, footstep matching with footstep. With his longer stride, he quickly made up the ground between them.

John's panicked breathing echoed in the hall, controlled, but their winded quality betrayed his fear. As Moran drew closer, he caught sight John in the darkness. John's movements were quick and careful, his shoulders turned partly to the wall and his gun up and ready, but despite these signs of training he moved like he was prey. He was so nervous and highly-strung, Moran knew that if he made a sound, John would spin around and kill him before he realised what he was doing.

An armed John was interesting. Moran hadn't expected that gunshot in the dark.

John picked his way to the flight of stairs leading down to the ground floor, then froze at something Moran couldn't see. His gun swung down.

"Move out of the way, or I'll shoot."

Then Moran saw it - Bern paused awkwardly mid-step, halfway up the stairs with a jerry can in one hand, his gun in the other, hanging uselessly by his side. Moran would have words, but for now he let himself feel impressed by John's excellent night vision.

"Move out the fucking way!" John hissed, voice raw.

Time to put Bern out of his misery.

Moran simply leant forward, pressing his gun to the back of John's head, hard. He relished John's shuddery intake of breath. "I think you've done enough shooting for tonight, Watson," he drawled. He saw Bern sag with relief from the corner of his eye, but Moran was focused instead on John's tense body. "Why don't you put the gun down? I get much more money if I bring you in alive than dead."

John's fingers around the gun flexed nervously on the grip.

"Just there," said Moran, his voice softening dangerously as he spoke, "on the top of the stairs."

John very slowly knelt, and lay the gun down. Moran dragged him close with an arm around his chest as Bern pocketed the weapon, so that John's back pressed tight against his front. He was quite small; Moran could rest his chin on the crown of John's head if he wanted. He felt John twitch as the water from Moran's jacket soaked through his clothes, then go incredibly still as Moran rested the muzzle of his gun right against his temple.

"I wasn't expecting you to be armed," Moran mused.

"I _was_ expecting you," John replied quietly through gritted teeth, his voice heavy with fear and anger.

"Quite right." Moran shifted his grip to catch John's neck in the crook of his elbow. If he tilted his head, he could see the sheen on John's forehead as he perspired. John had a nice face. "There's no such thing as a house that's safe from the spider." He glanced up at Bern. "Signal the van, then start pouring. We'll only be a little while."

"Yes, sir," said Bern, with a crisp obedience that was quite unlike him. Perhaps trying to butter Moran up, after being held at gunpoint by the very person they'd come here to capture. Moran didn't bother reacting. He'd let the man sweat it for a while.

John didn't struggle as Moran steered him back down the corridor. He was an easy warm weight against Moran's body, almost relaxed as he let himself be walked along, but Moran could feel his tension, could feel the rabbit pulse against his arm where it beat solidly in John's neck. When Moran indulged himself, pressed his nose into John's soft hair and sniffed, he felt the pulse jump.

"You should have shot him," Moran advised, and he was only half joking. "You might even have gotten away."

John stayed silent. Moran could feel his every inhale, exhale.

The sounds of Holt's wretched choking reached them before they entered the living room. Sun had a torch that he carefully kept aimed downwards, focused on Holt, but he glanced up for a quick second as Moran walked John in. Behind them, Bern strolled in, trailing petrol from the jerry can, splashing it liberally around the room. The rain hammered on, the curtains blowing inwards in gusts of icy wind, letting in dim light that winked over the shattered glass trampled into the carpet. John shivered.

"Still alive, Holt?" Moran asked pleasantly, cinching John closer to stop him bristling from the cold. Holt whined and wriggled on the floor as Sun looked him over. The kid's eyes were clenched shut in pain. His black uniform was torn in the midsection, smeared with blood. There was a small but widening circle of red around his body.

"Hit him in the stomach, sir," explained Sun as he pressurised the wound.

Moran squeezed his arm approvingly around John's throat, making him stutter. "That's a nice shot, Watson, in the pitch black," he murmured, before jerking his head towards the corridor. "Get him out of here, Sun. The van will be coming soon."

Sun nodded, got to his feet, and dragged the groaning Holt away with a firm grip under his armpits. He left a line of blood trailed behind him, a smeared comma that gleamed dark purple in the low light. The torch lay forgotten on the floor, pointed towards the kitchen.

"Oh god," John whispered.

Moran followed his line of vision.

The beam of torchlight was narrow, arcing into the small kitchen and glinting over the frosted glass of the sliding doors. A crumpled figure lay by the cabinets, drawing in horrible wet breaths, his head downcast. It was the bodyguard, broken.

The man's eyes swung up to meet them, and when he caught sight of John he spluttered in shock, blood dribbling from his nose and clinging to his upper lip. Holt had made at least one shot, hitting him in the lungs. A grasping hand, slippery with gore, stretched across the tiles to a gun far out of reach. His eyes didn't leave John's, and his breathing worsened as Moran moved closer.

"Ah ah ahhh…" Moran chided, kicking the useless weapon even further away. Firming his hold on John, he aimed his gun at the fallen bodyguard, his finger tightening.

"No, don't," John begged suddenly, his voice hoarse. "Please."

The bodyguard looked terrible by torchlight, his face drawn and pale, mouth leaking blood. He was staring up at John with pleading eyes. Whether it was pleading for John to escape, or pleading for his own life, Moran couldn't help but be irritated by the weakness of a man who had run out of time. He glanced down at John, who clutched desperately at the arm around his neck, a wordless appeal for a favour.

"Would you rather I leave him to burn?" Moran tilted his head toward Bern soaking evidence with petrol. "This is a mercy, John."

"You can't…" John's voice faltered as Moran rapidly aimed and fired. With a penetrating crack, the bodyguard's face split wide open and blood hit them both. " _No!_ "

John struggled well, almost ripping himself out of Moran's grip towards his fallen protector, but Moran was stronger and much too well-trained. "It's alright, John, _shh_ ," he murmured, pressing the gun hard against John's temple to still him. " _Shhh._ "

 

* * *

 

Hugh's blood had started to cool on John's cardigan.

John made his way down the stairs with difficulty; every time he stumbled in that painful grasp, his captor pressed him with the gun to remind him of its presence, right against his slowly bruising temple. He would have paid more attention, but John was finding it hard to concentrate on walking.

Every time he blinked he saw Hugh's face splinter into blood and bone. When his eyes were open, right in front of him was the young man he'd shot being hefted down the stairs, spluttering and coughing in the arms of two others.

One of the men pushed the front door open, and the rain flew in. There was a van running outside, its headlamps off. The young man was rushed to the back of the van and lifted inside. John hesitated at the doorway at the sight of the unmarked vehicle, but his captor shoved him out. He was immediately soaked, freezing rainwater plastering his hair to his scalp. He shivered and blinked up at the other houses; their occupants were either asleep or unseeing. He'd make a noise to attract attention, but these men had already shown their willingness to kill.

He’d thought, when they first broke in, that one of them had been the spider. But none matched the evidence. These men just worked for him, which was a terrifying thought in of itself.

"We're done in here," growled his captor. "Bern, light this place up. We'll be waiting for you at the base."

"I'll see you there," nodded Bern, flicking a lighter open and shut. "Good luck."

John sloshed through puddles towards the van, and let himself be pushed inside. He landed hard on his hands and knees and scrabbled to the far corner of the empty interior, pressing his back to it. His captor leapt gracefully in behind him and pulled the doors shut, and they raced off with a squeal of tires against wet tarmac. The motion pulled John's torso forward for a moment. Fear consumed him, and he wanted to throw up, firmly swallowing down his acidic saliva.

He was drenched. Water soaked his clothes, and trickled down his back, like someone had slipped ice down the back of his shirt. Breath skittered haphazardly out of his mouth in faint clouds as he shivered miserably, and he had to force himself to breathe evenly, fearful of the eyes that watched his every movement.

The man he shot was struggling to breathe and helplessly weak, staring up at the ceiling with wet eyes as another man put pressure on the bullet wound. He cried out whenever the van veered sharply or hit a pothole. John's hands ached with guilt. He’d shot to kill, and although he’d failed, the fact that he’d been willing to kill and couldn’t find it in himself to regret it weighed on him heavily. He would have killed to escape, like how he would have killed to save Rachael too, if he hadn’t been so slow, so conflicted…

"Admiring your work?" came a low, rough voice.

John's stare snapped away from where the young man lay dying.

His captor was crouching by him, swaying with the movements of the van. In the confusion of the safe house, John hadn't gotten a chance to really see him, but the voice was unmistakable. He was tall, with greying ash brown hair that hung in wet strands over his forehead and heavy-lidded dark eyes that had no shine. He closely observed John, his hands resting casually over his legs. His trigger finger curled naturally towards his palm. "That's not the first time you've shot someone."

The dead eyes were sharper than they looked. John wanted to look away from that far too _interested_ gaze, but he didn't. He needed to survive, and he knew he couldn't show any more weakness in front of this man.

"I recognise it," the man continued. "I was in the army for twelve years. I know what a killing man looks like." He reached forward and snatched John's left hand. John angrily gritted his teeth, trying to yank it away, but the grip was strong. The man contemplated his palms, gloved fingers intimately tracing the powder burns etched in John's skin. "You're a lot more dangerous than you pretend to be," he said, and his mouth split into a gently amused smirk.

He snapped a cuff around the wrist he held. John didn't flinch, even as the cold metal hit him. There was a pause while the man searched his face, although John had no idea what he was looking for. He just stared firmly back, and that seemed to be some sort of answer. Was the man deliberately testing John for a reaction?

"Turn around."

John grimaced and shuffled on his knees, immediately feeling more vulnerable. His captor tugged his other arm around and cuffed his wrists tight behind his back. He tugged sharply at the chain and the metal bit into John's wrists. It stung, but John wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing him wince.

"I have a piece of advice for you," began his captor. Suspicious, John twisted back to rest against the wall of the van so he could meet the man's dead eyes. He filled up John's vision, far too close in the cramped quarters. "Don't hide your emotions from the spider. He sees stoicism as a challenge, and he's incredibly inventive when it comes to breaking people down."

As a man who emoted about as well as a brick wall, he spoke like he'd had some experience. John arched his eyebrows. "What's he going to do to me?" he asked, trying to shift his back so that he didn't put pressure on his shoulders and to put some space between him and his captor, but the movement of the van kept shoving him forward.

His captor noticed, but didn't help. "You got his message."

_Photo after black-blood photo, torturous heart surgery spilling out onto the floor of the police station._

John remembered the spider's bloody promise, written in Hopkins's blood over the walls.

His captor's eyes narrowed. "I'm sure you know by now that he wants your heart like Holmes did," he said matter-of-factly. "You probably won't live to see the sunrise. But there are easy ways to die, and painful ones." He pulled out his handgun, the gun he'd so coldly executed Hugh with, and pressed the chilled metal to the centre of John's forehead. "Do you see what I'm offering you?"

John swallowed thickly and resisted going cross-eyed, focus drifting past the muzzle of the gun. It would be a mercy killing, like what he'd done to Hugh. It was difficult to take his eyes off his captor's gaze, the pressure of his attention as heavy as the gun, but John glanced to the side. The other men were ignoring what their leader was doing, perhaps purposefully. Had he offered this before?

John took a steady breath, clenched his trapped fists, and stared back up. "The spider won't be happy with you."

The man shrugged, his gun nudging John's forehead. "Sure, I'd take a pay-cut for delivering you dead," he admitted, mouth curving slightly, "… but to be perfectly honest, money isn't an issue for me. Plus, torture isn't really my thing. I'd be sparing myself a terrible evening too." His voice dropped low, and he almost caressed the gun across John's forehead, pressing down right between his eyes. "I could end it so easily…"

John wrenched his head firmly to the side and determinedly directed his eyes to the floor, the cold metal resting just in front of his ear. His captor seemed almost disappointed. He lowered his gun, brushing it past John's cheek, his jaw, his neck, soaking up John's every fearful breath, and leant in.

He was so close. John felt colder just by being near him. He couldn't wrap his head around this man's almost considerate behaviour, and his cruelty, asking permission to do damage. Those weren’t the thought processes of a normal person, and John struggled to understand him. Whether he was invading John's sense of space to unnerve him, or for other reasons, John's already overstretched restraint snapped. He pulled his knees up to his chest and met those dark eyes angrily.

The man's mouth widened into an interested smile. "Perhaps it might even be a relief," he suggested. "A release from the life of the walking corpse you have been since Sherlock Holmes sliced you open like so much meat."

If the man had said this a month ago, John would have believed it. But if working on the case had done anything, it had reminded John what it was like to have a purpose. "I am alive," John spat defiantly, "and I'd like to stay that way."

"You've been barely existing." The man dropped the gun to his lap and shook his head. "You aren't meant to be here, John. You should have died five years ago, bleeding out on Dr Holmes's carpet."

John's scar twinged in remembered pain and his hands flexed in their bonds, reflexively reaching to cover it.

The injured man broke into a spasm of coughing, and the captor spared him a glance before turning back to John. There wasn't a shred of care in his eyes. "You may be alive now," he said, "but your time is quickly running out. I'm just giving you the option between peace, and humiliation."

"I don't need your options," John said firmly, although, deep down, he felt dread swell at the suggestion of what was in store for him.

"Why?" the man asked, tilting his head. "Are you holding out on someone?"

John swallowed nervously, and raised his chin.

"You'd have heard the news that Sherlock has escaped, of course," the man said coldly. "It was only ever a matter of time. Do you seriously think he'd risk his newfound freedom to come running to your rescue?"

The scratches over the back of John's neck itched, where Sherlock had seized hold of him. "I don't know," he said reluctantly.

"You don't know," said the man shortly. "Deliberate ignorance is becoming a running theme with you, isn't it. Shall I tell you what will actually happen?"

John stared up at him, guarded.

"Sherlock won't find you," the man said, "or he won't bother to try. The spider will entertain himself with you until he gets bored, and then he will cut out your heart so he can finish his project. You will go down in history, a sorry postscript at the end of the stories of the men who wanted to kill you. The world goes on spinning without you in it."

His gloved hand came down, almost gently, over John's cheek, and it definitely wasn't the touch of a contact killer. John shrank back in shock, his breath coming in short gasps, and the man's eyes seemed to soften at the expression on his face.

"But that's not so bad," he said quietly. "It's not like you have anyone to leave behind."

John's eyes blurred, and - _"You needn't worry," Sherlock had whispered, his hands stroking possessively through John's hair. "I'd never let him hurt you."_

Did he mean it? Sherlock had escaped. He'd broken out the day after John had told him about the threat on his life, after five years of imprisonment. What did it mean, that John was willing to trust in Sherlock's promise? Because he did, as agonising as that thought was. He mourned for the dead orderly, pitied Dr Smith, but the attacks, if nothing else, had shown that Sherlock was determined to find him. That Sherlock believed he _could_ find him.

Between certain death, and the chance of escape, the choice was obvious. John wasn't quite ready to give up all hope yet. But the choice between one psychopath and another…

John sighed. Better the evil you know, and all that. "Thank you for the offer," he said steadily, "but no."

The man's hand dropped back to his side, and he shrugged lightly. "Alright."

Rain hammered on the roof of the van like a drumroll. The young man John shot was no longer crying out, but he was still breathing.

"Hang in there, kid," said the captor, slipping his gun back into its holster. "Maybe the boss will let you take your revenge."

 

* * *

 

Greg was back in his office, sat at his desk with his head in his hands, case files spread across the surface with their lurid contents spilling out. His clothes were crumpled and his eyes were red-rimmed, strained from too many long nights at the computer. The hour was late, but there was no-one waiting for him back home, not anymore. The only thing he had going for him was work, and that thought held little comfort.

Alone in his office, it struck Greg how empty his life had become. Years ago, Sherlock had predicted that Greg was due a depressive spiral. Is that what this was? Or was this, as Toby liked to monologue about, just the job getting to him after so many years of watching friends get hurt and criminals elude justice?

Sometimes, the job was just a job, but every so often there would be a case so all-consuming that it drained Greg's spirit just to work through it. The Holmes case was one, close to the bone and personal, a bitter memory for all involved. The copycat case had turned the same way, once John had signed up. Personal.

Exhaustion overcame him, and he buried his head in his hands.

It was shocking how much John's departure had affected him, and Greg still struggled to process his own thoughts about it. One minute John had been there, discussing the case with the other officers at the station, drinking a quiet cup of tea while huddled in Greg's kitchen, shuffling around upstairs while Greg watched the telly, and then, he was gone. Greg missed him. He missed John's presence, his company, and he feared for his friend's life.

Sherlock bloody Holmes had vanished into the ether, leaving behind a trail of injured and dead casualties He was _nowhere_ to be found, and had apparently made no attempt to leave the country. It felt mad to say it, but Greg knew Sherlock well enough to guess where the bastard was headed, well enough to worry that Witness Protection might not be enough to keep John safe from both a serial murderer and his deranged copycat. Not that Toby appreciated his input anymore, when it came to John.

Greg groaned, and scrubbed at his face, leaning back and scanning his eyes briefly over the case files. The words blurred together. He couldn't see anything new.

His torment was interrupted by a rap on the glass door. He jerked upright, staring up as Sally rushed in, eyes wide. She'd refused to let Greg keep vigil alone, so she was looking a bit less crisp than usual, but it'd take more than a few sleepless nights to shake Sally Donovan like this.  Greg felt his stomach sink at the sight of her.

"There's been a power-cut at the safe house," she announced, in a rush. "None of the officers are answering their radios."

The sinking feeling twisted into a frozen stab of dread. "Shit!" Greg scrabbled for his mobile, jabbing a finger at Sally. "Call in armed response. I'll get Gregson. He's the only one around here that knows what's going on."

Sally nodded and disappeared in a whirl of curly hair.

Greg felt dizzy. He hit the speed dial, muttering under his breath as the call connected. " _'Stay safe'_ , what the hell was I thinking. He should have stayed. He should have fucking stayed…"

His memory caught on an image of a resigned John in Toby's office, his small hand outstretched in farewell, his shoulders squared, eyes sad. Greg's throat tightened. He did _not_ want that to be the last time they ever saw each other.

Toby's phone rang once, twice, and then there was a clunk and a huff of breath. "This better be bloody important," growled Toby. Greg could almost see his irritated expression.

"There's been a power-cut on the street of John's safe house," Greg reported, pausing to clear his rough throat, "and none of the officers are responding. We need you here now."

There was a moment of silence. Toby inhaled to speak, only to be interrupted by a gentle muted voice in the background. "What is it?"

Greg paused, wondered whether or not to hold the phone away from his ear.

"It's work, darling," said Toby, voice muffled like he had his hand over the speaker. "I'm sorry." Then he was snapping down the phone at Greg again. "I'll be there in five minutes, Lestrade. I'll text you the address of the safe house. Get the local force over there now, and armed response. Bloody hell. Bloody _hell_ …"

 

* * *

 

John could see nothing. He lay curled up in the corner of the van with a bag over his head and a gag stuffed tightly enough against his tongue that it had him drooling. The cuffs dug into his wrists, pulled cruelly at his shoulders, and there was sweat in his eyes. He kept repositioning himself on the rough carpet to avoid discomfort, moving his weight off his shoulder and torquing his waist, and then when the strain became too much to bear, shifting back onto his shoulder. But he felt vulnerable, moving when blinded. He had no idea how many eyes were on him.

His captor had searched him once he was incapacitated, but now John was thankfully left alone, although still clammy, and damp and shivering. He stayed on his guard, his pulse rushing past his ears. In the dark and with no sense of direction, every noise, every brush of movement past him in the cramped van, was a potential threat. He heard man he shot gasping every so often, spilling out tortured noises as, John could only guess, he was being patched up.

The van rattled over uneven stretches of road, lolling John helplessly along with it. He heard pained moans whenever the van jolted over a pothole, although the man had been falling steadily quieter, like someone was turning the volume down. He needed more than first aid, and he needed it soon.

John hoped the odd power-cut had alerted the police. Maybe someone had been watching from their window, seen the van and called them. Maybe the van was being discreetly followed by the police at that very moment, just waiting for the right time to take out the wheels and corner them.

Maybe.

Unlikely.

In the blackness of his immediate surroundings, John had the delirious image of Sherlock catching up to them, crashing the van and ripping everyone inside to pieces so it was just him, and John, in a space that smelt of blood and body fluids.

The van pulled to a stop and John thudded painfully against the wall, shaken from his reverie. He groaned into his gag.

"Switch!" a voice called out.

The van's vibrations reverberated through him as the doors slid open, and the hammering rain amplified along with a gust of outside air that seeped through his wet clothes. The dying man yelped and was apparently dragged out into the rain, his cries fading to the white noise of the storm outside. John lay there, terrified, unsure if he was alone or if there was someone watching him. He shifted against the floor, cautiously, as if testing the waters, then froze as he heard the sound of crunching gravel.

Hands grabbed him under the arms, and John was hoisted like a dead body, hauled out into rain that soaked him anew. He twisted and thrashed as his feet kicked gravel, wrestled against his captor's arms eeling around him, wet and slippery as they struggled. It was futile. He missed the use of too many limbs and senses to fight against the grappling strength that gripped him so powerfully he could feel his bones grind.

Water had begun to seep into the bag, sticking it to his skin and making it hard for John to draw breath. He could hear rain on asphalt, water hitting mud, but he couldn't pick up the sound of any nearby traffic. Wherever they were, it was deserted. He heard feet crunch and splash through gravel as a man dashed back passed them, then there was a sloshing sound. Liquid being splashed into the van. He smelt petrol.

They were burning evidence, John realised, and with a rush of distress and adrenaline-spiked strength, his struggles turned savage, bucking and thrashing in his captor's slippery grip.

For one startling moment he was left unhanded, but with no bearings, he fell in his attempt to run. His knees smashed into sharp gravel, and without his hands, momentum pitched him face-forward.

"Idiot," grunted a familiar low voice, and he was pulled to his feet by strong hands, shoved forward, feet sinking in puddles. He blindly attempted to run again, but his captor snatched him up around the midsection, forearms hitting John hard, like a punch that forced the breath out of his lungs. Head spinning and queasy, John's feet left the ground as he was scooped up and carried to what must be a different van.

"What the fuck is going on, Moran?" demanded a new voice. The driver? "What happened to Holt?"

"He was being an idiot," growled his captor, pushing John inside. John fell hard on the metal floor, landing close enough to Holt that he could hear his stuttered breathing.

"You didn't…" the driver started. Moran interrupted.

" _I_ didn't shoot him," he helpfully clarified. "Now drive the fucking van."

An explosion of noise and heat blasted out just as the doors slammed shut, and John swayed as they accelerated into the night. No one had to mention their relief; John could feel the tension draining from the air as the men around him eased up. Someone let out a sigh, slumped against the wall of the van, unwinding from an unspoken tension. How much did they have riding on his successful delivery?

The spider, it seemed, was an expert at eliciting fear.

Quivering with adrenaline, his body still wound up after his unsuccessful escape attempt, John steeled himself and thought of tactics. All he could do to protect himself was be calm, collected, and give away nothing as he… as he waited for help to arrive. The police would be looking for him, and he had to give them time.

Or more likely, and John cringed to think of it, Sherlock would find him. If he was looking.

John knew that once Sherlock had set his mind on a problem, he would solve it. He'd seen him storm through enough cases and track down hidden suspects in record time to know that. The idea of Sherlock escaping from prison and finding him had been nightmare material for years, but now John's head was filled with a messy mix of hope and dread at the thought of it.

The floor under John's head vibrated as boots trod by, then he heard a man sit close to him. He knew it was Moran, and he could feel the man's eyes on him. John didn't want to attract undue attention, so he stayed very still on the floor where he had landed, his body aching. Damp clothes stuck to his skin. Water dripped down the back of his neck, like ice, and his cuffed wrists stung raw from being tugged together for so long.

Just as that thought coalesced, he heard shifting, then felt Moran's presence lean over him. A finger gently traced the outline of his wrists, checking for damage, and it felt like a pressed blister. John gritted his teeth and hoped that Moran would be satisfied with just looking over his wrists.

"Boss wanted you to call once you got here," called out the driver, and John was grateful for the distraction.

Moran sighed, his hand leaving John's. He shuffled in his pocket, and John heard buttons click, a dial tone. "Hey Boss, it's me."

The van fell into an unnatural silence, and John waited with them, caught up in the suspense. He could hear whispers of the spider's voice through the speaker, although not loudly enough to discern any words. The copycat, this spectre who'd been lurking over the case and leaving horrific threats for John, he sounded quite… normal. But then again, what had he been expecting?

 Yeah, we got him." Moran's voice got louder as he turned to look at John. A hand dropped down over his bagged head, thumb dragging the fabric over John's cheek. John curled inwards protectively as the hand started to stroke. "Alive."

John's self-control cracked. The fear he'd been forcing down all this time came gibbering up as he heard the soft voice that spilled out Moran's phone, fogging up his thoughts. He clenched his hands into fists and focused on the bite of the handcuffs, trying to ground himself, stay present.

Moran thankfully pulled away. "Shot one of my guys in the gut," he was saying in an alarmingly cold voice, considering that the man was bleeding out right beside him. "Yes Boss. Yeah. See you in ten."

Ten minutes. John tried to steel himself, but he was so exhausted.

There was a quiet beep. Apart from the swaying of the van, everything seemed frozen.

"Well," muttered Moran, after a long exhale. "Seems he's in a good mood now."

The tension dropped, and John slumped along with everyone else, although not out relief. Nausea rose up his throat. He felt sick and tired with fear, and he couldn't stop shivering. His heart raced in his chest, and the stuffy, humid darkness under his hood seemed to shrink around him. The bag was soaked through, and he was finding it hard to draw enough breath. He needed to calm down, or he'd wind himself.

John stretched his memory back, thinking over the case. None of the evidence they'd collected even hinted towards a _team_ of people trying to kill one person. Expecting a lone madman, they'd been completely unprepared for this organised attack.

It might have been part of the spider's plan all along. Had they been misled from the beginning? Had John's involvement in the case, and subsequently Sherlock's, already been predicted? Sherlock had said, right at the start, that the copycat's murders were a message. Perhaps, John thought wretchedly, they had been a countdown.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock had driven past the dark streets of the safe house to see sirens blazing in the night sky. He didn't risk stopping - instead he parked his newly stolen car a few minutes from the scene, and dashed through the rain to watch, hood up, Culverton's coat flapping around his knees. The rain hit his face as he ran, a sensation almost foreign after five years confined indoors. Just the feeling of his body traversing wide open space was exhilarating.

The fire was the brightest light in the sky. It was smothered in smoke that whorled over the scene in billowing clouds of black and grey as fire engines battled to stop the blaze. Police cars encircled the streets in a semblance of order, too-bright blue and white lights lancing through the scene.  Neighbours still watched from their windows and lawns, frozen, like trapped animals transfixed by the noise of shouts and sirens, hypnotised by the flashing colours.

Panting slightly from his run, Sherlock stayed hidden and partially protected from the heavy rain in an alleyway, pulling the hood of the coat tighter around his head. He glanced around, assessing the busy scene, but saw every sign that his quarry was no longer here.

Moriarty's threat hadn't been idle. He'd snatched John right from the supposed 'safe house', right under everyone's noses. Sherlock felt a flicker of amusement at the expense of the useless police force who'd been pitted against the skill of Moriarty's game, but it was quickly tempered by irritation. If John wasn't here, where could he have been taken?

Armed officers awaited orders by their vehicles, wrapped up in body armour and already soaking wet. Two police detectives stood sheltered by their umbrellas, figures silhouetted by the burning house. Sherlock recognised them easily - his old colleagues, DCI Toby Gregson and DI Greg Lestrade, caught in the middle of an argument as their twin masks of professionalism started, inexorably, to slip.

"We should never have gotten John involved in the first place," snapped Lestrade, his eyes glimmering with poorly repressed fury. There was frustration there too, although whether it was directed towards their situation, or towards himself, Sherlock couldn't tell. Frustration involving John, certainly. Sherlock had suspected as much from the beginning. John had displayed copious evidence of Lestrade bending over backwards to keep him close.

Gregson had a familiar expression plastered over his face, furrows of anger deepening defensively over his brow. Lestrade was tempting fate, here. "He wanted to help."

"No he didn't," Lestrade retorted. "He wanted to go home."

Lestrade was broken with worry. That was to be expected, given the danger John was now in. But his defensive body language betrayed the guilt that had been long gnawing at him. The short-sighted idiot couldn't have predicted this when he'd persuaded John to help them out, convinced of his ability to look after his men. He'd always fancied himself as a protector, and John certainly would have awoken those instincts in him. Despite John's strength and tenacity, all people saw when they looked at him was a victim.

Seeing without observing… had Sherlock's time with Lestrade taught him _nothing?_

"You said something to him, didn't you?" Lestrade pointed accusingly at his superior, his voice rising. "After he visited Holmes the first time? He was all ready to go home, and you said something to him that made him stay."

Gregson turned to face the fire, trying the play the bigger man by giving Lestrade the opportunity to end the argument before it turned ugly. "I just offered him a job with good benefits. I didn't push him."

But Lestrade kept hounding him, any shred of professionalism long since shrivelled up as he took out his stress and years of resentment on his DCI. "You implied that if he didn't help, more people would die, _didn't_ you?"

"Don't point fingers, Lestrade," Gregson growled, a warning for Lestrade to stop. "You went to his house. It was your idea to bring him on-board."

"Only so he could stay on as long as he was comfortable. I didn't blackmail him."

Gregson's tense patience snapped, and he spun back around with an expression so furious, so tormented, that Lestrade flinched back. "It was _not_ blackmail!" he roared, as wracked with guilt as Lestrade, and Sherlock got to see it _all._ He enjoyed the bristle of schadenfreude down his skin, and smiled.

"This is your fucking fault, Toby!" Lestrade yelled, loudly enough to attract attention from the other officers. Definitely guilt, thought Sherlock, his mouth twitching into a smirk. And well-deserved guilt too.

He'd seen the signs of this happening years ago, in a holding cell at Scotland Yard when he wound up the DI like a toy with a few well-placed predictions. Just five years later and here he was, proving Sherlock right by crumbling right in front of him.

Greg was still ranting. "You got him far too involved in the case, and when he became more dangerous to have around than useful, you chuck him out into a so-called safe house." Lestrade waved his hand towards the blazing fire. "Now look what's happened!"

Sherlock's mind swept through old memories, catching on the image of a pleasantly drunk John by the bar at the end of a successful case, laughing off something Lestrade had said, the man's hand on his shoulder. Sherlock knew they were old acquaintances, but he'd always sensed a wishful yearning for more, on Lestrade's part, that John was either oblivious to or studiously chose to ignore. That didn't discourage Lestrade's poorly hidden glances, or the way he lit up whenever John was around. It was one of the many things Sherlock disliked about Lestrade. Unrequited desire bored him so.

And how _quickly_ he'd leapt on John once he was made vulnerable by death threats and invasive media following him around: inviting John to live with him, lying to him about his wife, chaining John to the case with his reliably stubborn sense of duty so as to have him close by. Lestrade was a self-styled 'good man' with no qualms about taking advantage of what had been done to John and using it to further his own needs. It was selfish, cowardly; the whole mess had blown right up in Lestrade's face and the sight of him desperately trying to twist the story so he wasn't the villain in his own head was immensely gratifying.

Gregson's disgruntled anger seemed almost dignified next to Lestrade's bluster. Perhaps that comparison sank in for Lestrade, as his face suddenly dropped, embarrassed. Sherlock could see his inner turmoil as if he was screaming it out. He savoured it as Lestrade's red-rimmed gaze lowered to his feet with a grimace, as if he were in physical pain. "He said… he trusted me."

Sherlock scowled immediately at John's misplaced confidence.

"Well, more fool him," growled Gregson, and he turned his back on Lestrade and the fire, dismissively, as if wiping his hands of it all.

Lestrade's mouth dropped open in shock, the retort hitting him like a verbal blow. His usually soft eyes were bright with flame, shining with guilty rage, and for a moment, Sherlock thought the argument would turn physical.

He hoped it would. He wanted to watch Lestrade ruin his career with one uncontrolled swing. Lestrade was overwrought and brittle, ready to snap. He'd always been an easy target, but his abject failure to protect the man who had unwisely put his trust in him had damaged his self-image, and it could very easily push him over the edge, fists flying at his DCI.

Unfortunately, Lestrade had enough self-preservation to restrain himself. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, a self-defensive gesture Sherlock remembered well, and paced off through the puddles towards the gathered police cars.

Alone, Gregson took a deep breath, and released a slow exhale, breath clouding around his mouth. He ducked his head, squeezing his hand over his forehead as if to physically massage away a headache. Sherlock recognised Gregson like this, with his barriers down. He'd seen it in the more desperate moments of the Holmes case, still a DI, watching the body count rise. The man felt a lot guiltier than he'd let on.

A slim figure in a tan coat dashed over from the ambulances. It was Sally Donovan, who'd never trusted Sherlock, and Sherlock felt a heated rush of irritation up the back of his neck just from looking at her.

"You okay, sir?" she asked. The skin under her eyes was puffy. She'd been staying up late, like Lestrade had.

Gregson squeezed his forehead, then he stood up straight and let his hands fall to his sides. "Fine. Just tired," he said quietly, peering down at her shrewdly. "What is it?"

Donovan nodded, let her curiosity go. "The fire fighters found a body on the third floor," she reported. Her voice dropped. "There's not much evidence left…"

"Show me," demanded Toby.

"They're bringing the body down…" Donovan began, launching into an explanation as she marched off. Toby fell in beside her, and together they walked out of Sherlock's hearing range.

Clearly, Moriarty had set the fire to cover his tracks. Sherlock had always doubted that Moriarty would carry out such a significant murder in a run-down police safe house. He'd have taken John -- no, he'd have had his 'employees' take John to him, so he could do what he wanted at his own pace…

Sherlock sank back against the brick wall, bile rising in his throat at the imagery of Moriarty's hands ripping into John's guts. He inhaled the chilled night air deeply, let it sting his lungs, and then turned on his heel and sprinted back to his car.

 

* * *

 

"We've found him!"

Mycroft swivelled on his heel to face the projection, which had turned to live CCTV footage of a slim figure running through raining streets.

"Little brother," murmured Mycroft, as his workers scrambled to find the exact address. Sherlock had already spotted the security camera and moved out of view. "Set this current camera feed to loop. I want to be able to move it."

"Right away, sir."

The screen split into two; the real footage, and the loop that would show on the security cameras. The real camera swivelled to point further onto the pavement. They all saw the phone box.

"I need that phone number," said Mycroft. A smaller monitor showed one of his programs scrolling through numbers and addresses, before pinpointing one. "Call it," ordered Mycroft, slipping on his headset.

 

* * *

 

Not only had the weather, with its puddles and evidence-washing rains, obliterated any useful evidence Sherlock might have gathered from the crime scene, but the congregation of emergency services and officers blundering about had muddled everything else. Besides, whatever getaway vehicle Moriarty's men had transported John in, they would have almost certainly switched it at some point.

Perhaps Sherlock could tune into some police radios, find out if any blown-out vans had been reported…

He'd reached his car when, over the sounds of heavy rain, he heard a ringing sound.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft held the headset close to his ear. He heard the low dial tone, and then the ringing. "Where's Sherlock?"

The camera spun, quickly catching sight of Sherlock and reframing. His brother was already moving towards the phone box, initially hesitant, then in fast strides. The picture zoomed in, catching Sherlock's furtive glance around, noticing the camera, before opening the door and picking up the phone.

"Mycroft, I'm busy." His deep voice crackled through the team's headphones, and Mycroft smiled indulgently. Of course, Sherlock had known who he was straight away.

"Hello, Sherlock. It's been a long time."

"What is it?" Sherlock demanded brusquely, ever the insolent child.

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow at his team, and then turned back to the footage. "I'm here to save your skin," he said smoothly. "You must head to Strand Airfield immediately. I have a plane waiting to extract you."

Sherlock glanced coolly at the camera. "I appreciate the sentiment, but I have something to collect first."

It was understandable. Sherlock had been locked up for over five years with nothing of his own; of course he'd want to get his hands on as much of his old property as he could. He was a magpie-like collector, and had long been frittering away his savings during his stay in prison to make sure no-one would be able to get their hands on his books, his recipes, his violin. Luckily, Mycroft had excellent contacts in the UK. "I can retrieve your possessions at a later date," Mycroft assured him. "Now's not the time. You do realise that the entire country is looking for you?"

Through the poor quality of the camera footage, it was difficult to see the minutiae of Sherlock's changing expressions, but Mycroft still recognised an indignant pout when he saw one. "It hasn't escaped my notice," Sherlock drawled.

"Then head to the airfield." Mycroft's patience was wearing thin. "You need to leave."

"And I will," said Sherlock, turning his back to the camera. "But not yet. You're wasting my time." He moved to pluck the phone from his ear.

 _Madness._ "Don't you dare hang up," Mycroft warned.

Sherlock froze, perhaps instinctively, from hearing the authoritative voice from his youth. It gave Mycroft a split second advantage, and he pressed it.

"What are you collecting?"

Sherlock stilled. He was calculating his reply, and he clearly didn't want to tell Mycroft. Unfortunately for him, his hesitation was all the evidence Mycroft needed to fit that final puzzle piece in place. He knew what Sherlock is going to say before he said it and -- "John Watson," Sherlock said simply, proving him right.

Mycroft didn't groan, but his hand tightened somewhat over the headset.

Everyone in the room knew about John Watson.

Mycroft had kept good records on Sherlock's life. Every single article or journal that mentioned Sherlock was carefully collated in Mycroft's office for his own perusal, and he'd read all about the much sensationalised friendship, about Sherlock's growing fixation after the failed murder. But Mycroft didn't need first-hand evidence; he could recognise an obsession of Sherlock's when he saw one, and he _disliked_ it. Sherlock had never obsessed over a person before, let alone one as plebeian as John Watson, but that didn't make his desires any less distracting. Or dangerous.

It seemed the rumours were true. Sherlock finally had the freedom he had so longed for, and in an act of uncharacteristic irrationality he was risking it all just to save an ungrateful ex-cop.

"Moriarty has him," Sherlock said.

Mycroft rolled his eyes in annoyance. "All the more reason not to go after him." Moriarty was a growing pain in Mycroft's side, nowhere near his level, but he'd heard enough stories about Moriarty's vengefulness to fear for Sherlock's safety. Though they hadn't spoken in years, Sherlock was still his little brother; the last of the Holmes line. "Go to the airfield, Sherlock."

"No," Sherlock snapped stubbornly. "I'm going to get John."

Tension rippled up Mycroft's neck. "This obsession of yours is _childish_. John isn't special." On the poor resolution camera, Sherlock visibly recoiled in anger. "You've just had five years alone to go mad over him, that's all this is."

"It's more than that," contended Sherlock, and Mycroft was only too conscious that he meant it.  "I made him a promise." Sherlock sucked in a breath, leant against the glass of the phone box. His voice dropped, quieter. "He came to me because he was scared, and I promised him that I wouldn't let Moriarty hurt him."

The sudden confession caught Mycroft's attention.

Sherlock had always been a master manipulator, with careful use of 'promises' just being another tool in his arsenal. No doubt his relentless search for John wasn't entirely selfless, but the fact that he was intent on keeping his word was notable.

"Well, you were in no position to make that sort of guarantee," Mycroft said coldly. "You've noticed that the spider has already moved him from the safe house. You're too late. And thank goodness, because if you'd arrived in time, you would have been shot."

Sherlock didn't answer. The camera captured his very still figure through the glass, eyes darting as his mind whirled in thought. Had he run out of counter-arguments?

"How are you supposed to even find him?" Mycroft continued, keeping his tone reasonable. "Do you even know where John might be taken?"

Sherlock stayed silent. Only the noise of the rain came through, like static.

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock--"

"I don't know where John is," said Sherlock suddenly.

Mycroft rolled his eyes at his assistants, gesturing for them to start organising Sherlock's plane home. "Well, then --"

"But you can find out."

When Sherlock turned to fully face the camera, his expression was fierce. All youth and vulnerability was gone. He stared up at Mycroft, through the lens, as though meeting the gaze of an equal. Mycroft had never seen that expression on his face before, and he frowned, trying to reconcile this Sherlock with the one he'd help raise.

"You want me working with you for your little crime ring, I understand that." The note of condescension in Sherlock's voice irritated Mycroft immensely. "I, however, cannot and will not leave this country without securing John Watson's safety." His voice softened. "I want to take him with me, Mycroft."

Mycroft grimaced. "Sherlock, I'm sorry, but that's quite impossible."

"You tracked me down quickly enough," Sherlock countered. "I'm sure you can do the same for John."

"That's beside the point…" Mycroft covered the microphone and sucked an exasperated breath through his teeth. How was it so difficult to persuade his obstinate brother to do the smart thing? Yet again, Mycroft found himself missing the days when Sherlock would follow his advice without question. "I want you to start a new life once you get here. You'll have little time for companions."

Sherlock was immovable. "I'm willing to make time, in this case."

"John doesn't care for you, Sherlock," Mycroft said tightly, carefully containing his pent-up frustration from his voice, although his hands squeezed white over the headset. "You've overanalysed the relationship to the point where you can no longer be objective."

Sherlock scoffed. "Don't bother trying to work out what's going on in his head, Mycroft. You don't know him like I do."

"I was talking more about what's going on in your head, Sherlock," said Mycroft pointedly.

"If you want me to come with you, which you _do_ ," Sherlock said, voice sharp, "you're going to have to help me."

Mycroft sighed.

 

* * *

 

The glass door of the phone box crashed shut behind Sherlock. He sprinted back to his car and slid in, yanking off the soaking coat and throwing it in the backseat. When he reached out to start the ignition, he realised with some shock that his hands were shaking.

Concerned, he sat back, holding his hands up to his face and staring intently. His fingers trembled before his eyes, twitching, and he had to focus to still them. Shock, perhaps, from his estranged brother's sudden phone call. Fear, for the potential loss of his friend. Anger at Moriarty. Or maybe his medications were wearing off, and he was going through the withdrawal symptoms. If that was the case, it was truly unfortunate timing. Sherlock needed his head for what was going to come next.

At least now he had a firm escape path out of the country, one that didn't involve threats or murder. Not that Sherlock had any problem with using violence to get his own way, but if he was going to be bringing John with him, he needed to be careful with who John saw him kill.

He twisted the key, and the car's lights glowed brighter, the engine starting and swelling to a low rumble. As he flipped on the windshield wipers, the GPS blinked on, displaying the useless welcome message and an over-designed logo. Sherlock was going to turn the thing off when the screen suddenly went black.

White text scrolled on.

_If you want him so badly, go and get him._

The text vanished, and Sherlock watched as the GPS input an address on its own, and searched for it. The map popped up with the directions.

"Of course, you knew where he was the entire time…" Sherlock muttered. As he looked ahead to his endgame, he felt a tightening of dread around his chest, sickening in its familiarity. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. Mycroft was going to want his soul for this…

There was no point in dwelling on things he couldn't do anything about. He turned his mind turned to John. John, who was being taken to an inner-city apartment building an estimated half-an-hour away.

 

* * *

 

Gravity shifted, and John shifted onto his side as the van rolled slowly down a short, steep ramp, hitting the bottom with a bounce of suspension. The sound of traffic was a dim background noise, so John could only imagine that they'd pulled into an underground car-park. The van came to a neat stop, then the engines died. Heavy footsteps picked their way passed John's ear, and the doors squeaked as they swung open.

"Get Holt to the doctor," ordered Moran from where he stood, somewhere over John's head. The rasping breaths that John had been doing his best not to listen to turned to gasps as Holt was carried out. Footsteps echoed over hard ground, stamping out of the van, over concrete.

Then, there was silence.

Was he alone?

John twisted his hands experimentally in the cuffs, and then yelped into the gag when he was abruptly grabbed under the shoulders. He was pulled upright into a sitting position, resting against a hard body. He could feel Moran's breath through the material of the bag.

"Last chance, John," he said quietly. "Just nod, and I will put an end to this."

John's mind reeled and he forced himself to stay very still, fearing Moran would mistake a twitch for a nod and send a bullet through his brain.

He felt Moran's chest swell, then deflate as he sighed. "Very well."

 

* * *

 

John attempted to map where he was being walked by the textures under his shoes, and the ambient temperature, but he quickly lost track. From the freezing concrete garage, Moran pushed and shoved him into some sort of corridor that was no warmer, down various twists and turns, then forced him to clumsily climb up a flight of stairs. He passed through a set of push doors. Despite his blindness he could _feel_ the space around him open up. The air was warmer against his aching body, and lessened the shivering somewhat.

"Move it," prompted Moran, as John stood awkwardly still at the sudden lack of confinement. The hand at his shoulder herded him forward, and there was a slide of doors. When John stepped in to what felt like a limited space, the door slid shut behind him, and then his stomach plummeted as the floor beneath his feet shot upwards. An elevator. Moran's hand shifted across, damp glove settling over the back of his neck and tightening slightly.

A warning?

The doors opened with a _ping_ , and John was steered forward. The warm air rolled over him like a caress, and his feet sank into thick, luxurious carpet that felt good on his stiff joints. Despite the seemingly welcome surroundings, John's fear only grew, prickling his skin with sweat. No one had been expecting a murderer who had control over a team of hit-men. Was the homage to Sherlock's crime spree just a hobby, a diversion from whatever it is the spider usually did? What did that make John?

Moran walked silently beside him, his hand on the nape of John's neck, guiding him through the quiet hallway. Their footsteps were silenced by the carpet, the sound of rustling clothes smothered by the surroundings, heavy curtains, wallpaper, to soothing shuffles.

After a few turns, he was pulled to a stop. Moran reached around him, arm grazing John's shoulder. There was a muted clunk, and then a door was swung open for him.

John was barely ushered in before Moran's hand over his neck gripped and he was pushed down without warning. Landing solidly on his knees, he crumpled over, the shock reverberating sharply up his body. He grunted and bowed forward in pain, his arms twisted behind him. Every movement chafed his wrists, digging the metal into his scrapes. He let out a muffled cry as Moran wrenched him back to his knees, as if for presentation, his breath puffing around his ears under the bag. He could hear, very faintly, as if from another room, gentle sounds of classical music that clashed entirely with the blood-rush of fear pumping through his body. He found it hard to draw breath.

"Weren't there… more of you?" came a voice eventually. It was an odd accent, soft, but unnervingly changeable. From the way John was being displayed, he could guess that this was the spider.

"Your new guy got shot," Moran answered flatly, his hand twitching around John's neck. "I had the others take him to the doc for medical treatment."

"So… alive then?" There was a shift, the spider getting to his feet. "Johnny-boy's not the marksman I heard he was."

"It was pitch black, sir," said Moran, a little testily. "A pretty fine shot, considering."

Even on the soft carpet, John could hear the approaching footsteps.

"Or he's damn lucky."

Moran let go, and John was blinded by light as the bag was yanked from his head. Everything blurred. He squinted in pain, his eyes watering, and ducked down, but a skinny hand slid under his jaw and forced his head up.

"Or very unlucky," mused the spider. "Depends on how you look at it."

John's eyes refocused, and his stomach lurched. The spider's pale face loomed over him, he tilted John's head this way and that in a contemplative manner, like he was examining something. His thin frame was dressed exquisitely in a dark blue suit, black hair slicked back over his skull. John's gaze flicked erratically over him, but he kept returning to the huge dark eyes.

The spider pouted in confusion. "He's very… ordinary. How dull." He dropped his harsh grip on John's jaw with visible distaste. "I'm surprised at Sherlock. I've always thought of him as a man with good taste."

Had Sherlock known the spider personally? John's eyebrows knitted together as he considered it, but before he could get his thoughts together, the spider's expression suddenly turned furious. His hand blurred, and John's head pitched to the side as he was abruptly backhanded across the face, stinging heat spreading up his cheek. Startled, he groaned into the gag, blinking frantically. Moran grabbed him and pulled him back onto his knees.

There was an unsettling gleam in the spider's eyes as he considered the man crouching in front of him. "I suppose there's something stoic about him that's charming, in a way," he mused. "If you were desperate." He glanced up at Moran. "Get him ready, will you, dear?"

John's heart beat helplessly in his chest, head spinning with nausea as heavy hands seized him yet again. Despite his resistance, he was wrested to his feet and half-dragged to the centre of the room, where a heavy wooden chair was already positioned. He struggled as Moran released the handcuffs, eliciting a few giggles from the spider, but John already knew it was pointless. Moran was too strong.

When he was finally forced into the chair, his hands were secured around the curved backrest tightly enough that his wrists burnt. Moran expertly bound his legs and torso, glancing up at him every so often with those impassive hooded eyes. John could read nothing from him. He tried to breathe in deeply and tense his muscles, so the ropes would be loose, but when Moran was done, John could do little but wriggle.

He tested his bonds when Moran stood and felt another spike of panic as he discovered the complete lack of give. Huffing around the gag, he wrenched his arms furiously, but all he achieved was slicing the metal cuffs at his already tender wrists. Moran waited for his thrashing to stop, and when John finally slumped against the chair, his chest heaving, Moran stared at him meaningfully before loping back to the door and leaning by it, awaiting orders.

While the spider hummed along to his music with his back to John, he took the moment to catch his breath and ready himself for whatever was coming next. With no chance of fighting them off, all John could do was buy time.

He glanced around his lush surroundings. The room, a lounge of some sort, judging by the furniture, was large and warm and decorated in mostly reddish hues, with soft golden lighting. He could hear the music more clearly without the bag over his head, some Russian composer whose name he’d long forgotten.

John sat facing what seemed to be the centrepiece of the room: the window. Spanning an entire wall, from floor to ceiling, it was framed at the edges by long red curtains that the spider hadn’t closed, despite the late hour. The rain streamed down it like a waterfall, inky black, with yellow blurs of light shining as if through frosted glass. John found it discordantly beautiful. He’d been expecting a dungeon, nothing like this.

The spider whispered to himself under his breath, and there was a clink as he chose something from the coffee table.

"But, mm, it's not like Sherlock is desperate," he muttered. "He could have had anyone." He turned to stare at John, trying to gauge him, and tilted his head. "Yet he obsesses over a useless little ex-detective who's the very epitome of dull.”

John's breath stilled.

The spider was holding a long steel kitchen knife that winked in the lamplight. It was similar to -- no, John corrected himself, _identical_ to the knife Sherlock had attacked him with, all those years ago. Memory rushed back, the agonising pain, strength bleeding out, and the shock of betrayal sinking into realisation as Sherlock looked down at him with apologetic grey eyes. The images super-imposed themselves, the knife gleaming in the spider’s hand, and the knife in his gut, red blossoming over his stomach. Past ran alongside present, and John was overcome with fear.

As he threw himself against his ropes in blind panic, the spider paced forward with the knife swinging by his side, a predator who had found injured prey and was savouring his approach, waiting for him to wear himself out. John's struggles must have finally ripped the skin of his wrists, because he winced in pain and felt blood trickle down his right palm. He curled his fingers around the warm liquid and twisted as far as possible from the spider, who rested his free hand on the back of the chair and leant right into John’s space.

John could smell his expensive smooth cologne.

The spider's mad black eyes flicked disdainfully over John's panting face, weighing him up. "You know," he said lightly, his eyelids lowering. "I feel almost let down."

The flat length of the cold blade pressed hard over John's cheek, like a promise.

"I went to visit him, did you know that? After I killed the copper."

John's eyes widened.

"We talked about you at great length." His face split into a grin that showed too many teeth. "Do you want to know what he said?"

The blade pressed very slightly, and John quivered, blinking hurriedly. He chewed weakly at his gag, not wanting to know, but unable to stop listening.

"He said he finds you entertaining," the spider whispered, stroking the blade gently back and forth as if spreading butter over John's skin, "When you _suffer._ "

There was a flash of metal as the spider made as if to stab John right through the cheek, and he laughed lightly at John's terrified moan. No pain came. When John, humiliated and angry, forced himself to meet that black gaze again, the spider laughed even harder.

"Yeah," he said, with a loose-lipped smile. "I can see it. I can see it…" He tapped the knife distractedly against his palm, shifting his body slightly towards Moran while his eyes stayed fixed on John. "What do you think about him?" he demanded of his henchman.

"I've no opinion, sir," said Moran flatly, staring straight ahead. He’d been steadily ignoring what his boss was doing the entire time. Maybe, John thought, he’d been telling the truth when he said he didn’t like torture.

The spider's face pinched, and he swivelled to glare. "But if I told you that you _had_ to have an opinion."

Moran shrugged easily, his blank eyes sweeping disinterestedly over John's bound figure. "I think he's as mad as Holmes is, in his own way."

The spider chuckled. "There's _something_ odd about him, I'll give you that." He turned back to John and puts his hands on his hips, peering down with a raised eyebrow. "You're quite broken, aren't you?" he mused in a soft voice, play-acting at sympathy, but John could see the glee just behind the surface. "Ill-used by your old friends… they were so desperate to catch me that they let you fall right into my hands. Do you hate them?" The spider’s mouth twitched, a hint of a vicious smile. "You should. I would."

John just glared at him. He knew exactly what the spider was referring to; John’s reluctant involvement in the case had been readily ruminated on in the press. He’d come to terms with being ‘used’, and he’d make the same choice again for the chance to cut a killing spree short.

The spider pursed his lips. "It's days like this I miss having an on-call psychiatrist," he muttered to himself, and then jerked his head at Moran. "Are the cameras running?"

"Yeah, I switched them on," replied Moran.

The spider waved a skinny hand dismissively. "Go … patrol, or whatever it is I pay you to do."

Moran immediately pulled himself upright. He spared John one last unfathomable look before leaving the room and shutting the door behind him with a neat clip.

Alone, the spider's oppressive aura seemed to swell and drive the air from the room. John jerked abortively at the ropes, but stayed solidly tied down. The spider's mouth widened at his struggles. He propped his clammy hand companionably on John's shoulder for balance and ducked down to eye level, gesturing patiently with the knife till John's eyes followed it to see the cameras.  There were five installed around the room, capturing them from various angles, and the spider wore a sixth on his tie clip.

"My little present for Sherlock when all this is over," he explained sweetly. The hand on John's shoulder then slid up from his clothes to the bare skin of his neck, his parallel scratches, the knot of the gag, squeezing upwards to card into his damp hair in an intimate caress. John shuddered as the spider scritched thoughtfully over John's ear. "Did Sherlock tell you my name?"

John shook his head in answer, and the fingers in his hair tightened painfully.

"I'm Moriarty," the spider hissed, "and I _own_ England."

That explained the personal army, John thought, throat bitter with realisation. Schooling his features into inoffensive blankness, he stared past Moriarty's waist to the waterfall window and tried to think. He wanted to disassociate himself from what was happening, but Moriarty was unpredictable and impossible to ignore. He demanded attention with every twitch of his fingers, which he clenched around John’s hair whenever he felt John’s attention drifting.

"I used to own Sherlock's time too, until he met you." There was a hint of resentment in Moriarty's voice that hinted at some unspoken history, but then he turned contemplative. "I think he loves you, you know." He tilted his head ruefully. "As much as a sociopath can love anyone, anyway."

If that was the case, John really didn’t want to know Moriarty’s definition of love.

Moriarty’s hand dipped to lightly trace the still healing scratches that marred the nape of John's neck, where Sherlock's nails had ripped into his skin as they were pulled apart by hospital orderlies. John's neck stung as the probing hand lingered, but in an attempt to maintain some form of control he remained stony-faced.

Moriarty saw it, and his expression turned ugly.

The hand at his neck stopped caressing and grabbed John harshly around the throat.

John felt his throat seal up. He choked in panic as he tried to breathe, but succeeded in doing nothing but gape like a fish around the gag. He thrashed, eyesight blurring, knowing that he was being played with again, but he couldn’t overcome that instinctual fear of suffocation as the air was throttled out of him. The fuzzy lines of Moriarty leant forward with a wide grin, delighting in his pain. John felt the heat of him, and shuddered to feel him rest his cheek on John's, very gently.

"I told him what I was going to do to you," Moriarty whispered, stubble rasping against John’s cheek, "and he broke out of prison that very day. If that's not love, I don't know what is."

He said it with a reedy sort of laugh, but John could tell he didn’t find it funny at all.

As soon as Moriarty released him, John gasped in a breath. The air was like sandpaper in his throat, and he couldn't help but cough wretchedly into the gag. His body tried to fold forward, but Moriarty's skinny hands pushed his shoulders firmly against the chair, his huge black eyes running covetously over the evidence of John's distress. Hot tears threatened at the edges of John's eyes, and he flushed with shame and impotent fury that Moriarty noticed.

If John had been steeling himself for anything in the back of the van, it had been physical torture, extreme pain, nothing like this-- but that train of thought fizzed to static as Moriarty reached forward and started to undo his cardigan.

"Although, you have to be careful, don't you?" the madman mused, flipping John's cardigan open to expose his damp shirt. He trailed his fingers idly down the buttons. "Or perhaps you don't know, being the _ordinary_ person that you are. See, I mix with these sorts of people every day, John. They're my life. Let me let you in on a little secret, huh?"

He swept forward, teeth bared, and John inhaled in shock as Moriarty pressed them right over John's ear to whisper.

"A stalker who loves you is far more dangerous than one who merely wants to kill you."

John shook and tried to twist away, but Moriarty just laughed softly in his ear, breath hot.

"As you've probably guessed, I'm the latter." Moriarty sneered, and he splayed his fingers over John's sternum, before grabbing John's cardigan and easing it off his shoulders. "So, really," he chirped with a bright grin, "you're safer with me than you are with Sherlock."

John kept his gaze focused to the side, breathing shallowly through his nose, the hands over his body grating at his nerves. He hadn't had true privacy in days, he was exhausted by it. He still felt filthy from the kidnapping; not just the rainwater and dirt, but the grabbing and shoving, like he was just a piece of furniture being moved, an object with no agency. He was a raw nerve now, could do nothing to suppress his shudders at Moriarty's violations. Perhaps that was why Moriarty was taking so much pleasure invading John's personal space, prodding at his psyche.

Making him play for the cameras.

"I wonder what dark, horrible things that maniac has in mind for you," Moriarty crooned. "Do you think Sherlock wants you? Sexually, I mean? You must have noticed his interest; you know, before the stabbing."

His voice darkened, and his nostrils flared.

"I could practically smell it on him."

He inhaled by John's temple, and when John tried to pull away, tutted at him as if John was a misbehaving child. John flinched as cold steel pressed again to his cheek, guided him back so Moriarty could watch his face unobstructed. The man's hand gripped eagerly around the handle of the knife, and there was a sheen of sweat over his forehead from excitement.

"When he was all alone in his cell, do you think he fantasized about you?" Moriarty wondered aloud, pressing the knife against John's cheek and breaking into a smile as John grimaced at the threat of steel. "Lying back on that squeaky little cot and taking himself in hand… He had _five years_ to obsess over you."

John wished he could turn away. His face must have betrayed his loathing, because Moriarty's eyes widened in pleasure, his smile sharpening.

"I heard that Dr Smith let him keep pictures of you, and he would lie there to look at them and just zone out for hours. What else would be going in his head? He'd be making up dirty situations, or replaying scenarios that happened just as they did in real life, except this time, he got to _fuck_ you."

The images flashed grotesquely through John's mind, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

He still remembered Sherlock's predatory expression upon catching sight of him for the first time in years. He'd dragged his eyes over John with undisguised hunger, and the uncensored _want_ had sent John right back to Sherlock’s living room, forced up against the bookshelves as Sherlock whispered into his ear. John had gone home after that first visit and quietly obsessed over his old memories, yet again scraping for signs he might have missed, clues that he had ignored. He’d never really known Sherlock. Not until the man had tried to kill him.

"Oh, the things he must have dreamt of doing to you," whispered Moriarty, breathlessly, and John’s eyes fluttered back open. "Can you imagine it, letting him hold your life in his hands? Can your little mind even comprehend what it might be like to be entirely at the mercy of a man like Sherlock?"

There was scorn in Moriarty's voice, and it twisted John's gut. Who knew better than he did about being at Sherlock's mercy?

Moriarty let go of John and stood up straight. "I've always found him irritatingly asexual. You've brought something new out of him, I suppose, although how someone like you can inspire such a reaction escapes me."

He scowled, then in a sudden show of violence, backhanded John across the face. Pain again flared up his cheek, and John's head was flung to the side. He inhaled sharply through his nose.

"Useless," Moriarty sneered. Despite his words, his cheeks flushed red with enjoyment. He stared down at John with his teeth bared and reached forward, grabbing John's shirt and ripping it open with relish. John protested as noisily as he could from behind his gag, but Moriarty just hit him again. "Shut _up_."

John felt obscenely vulnerable, his torso exposed to Moriarty. He tried to even his heaving breaths, calm himself, but his chest still rose and fell rapidly, and he trembled even though the air was warm.

Moriarty's eyes drank him in, feasting on the scar, and it felt obscene, like Moriarty was looking inside of him. John was acutely conscious of his disfigurement. The twisted pale flesh had faded somewhat, but he still cringed in front of Moriarty's greedy eyes.

He jolted in his chair when Moriarty reached forward to smooth a hand down John's skin. Moriarty chuckled and gave John a disturbing smile, his hand trailing down John's panting chest, his bare stomach. When his fingers brushed the scar, the touch seemed to crawl right through John’s guts.

Moriarty's grin widened nastily.

He gripped the wound and John convulsed in white-hot pain that seared and sizzled through his abdomen, nerve-endings firing as if a knife had been plunged into his gut. John let out a muffled sob, reflexively bending forward and wrenching at his bloody wrists. Moriarty licked his lips in delight, dug his fingernails in and squeezed the damaged flesh until John was moaning loudly into the gag. With a sick laugh he _twisted_ at the scar, nails piercing skin, and when John screamed he let go and slapped him, hard.

John's cheeks burned with pain and humiliated fury.

Moriarty cast a quick grin at a camera over his shoulder, teasing his invisible audience. Then he raised his knife again and slowly, deliberately, pressed the flat of it against John's bruising cheek. John inhaled tremulously, his eyes half-closed, trying to still his shaking but his body was far past obeying his attempts to hold still. He felt the metal drag across his jawline, taunting, and clenched his eyes shut.

Suddenly, the knife pressed harder against his skin. John held his breath, anticipating the bite and splitting of skin, but the knife just slid between his cheek and the fabric of the gag, and cut the sodden rag off.

The gag had been tight and chafing, so it was an instant release of pressure. John pushed it out with his sore tongue, shaking his head. The wet fabric thumped to the carpet and John gasped in relief, his mouth wet and raw, staring up in confusion at Moriarty. "Why are you -" he began, but flinched back as Moriarty raised the knife.

"Now, now, Johnny," drawled Moriarty. "Didn't your owners teach you any manners? Don't speak unless I'm asking you a question."

He pushed his finger across John's lip, and John jerked away, leaving a trail of saliva over his chapped mouth. Moriarty chuckled, wiping his finger on John's torn shirt.

"My sources tell me that Sherlock rarely corresponded with anyone while he was in prison, even though he got plenty of letters. But he did keep in regular touch with someone. Annual reminders." Moriarty tilted his head, then slid his fingers through John's hair. "Ring any bells in that stupid head of yours?"

John stayed resolutely silent, tensing as Moriarty's fingers curled through his scalp.

"I suggest you answer the question, sweetie," said Moriarty idly.

It was one thing to be tortured, but John refused to be forced into playing along. "Why should I?" he retorted.

Moriarty let out a little giggle. "Because every second you take to answer is an extra second tacked onto your little life," Moriarty replied sing-a-song, twisting his fingers tighter around John's hair until John hissed in pain, and then pushed him away with a sneer. "You _know_ I'm going to kill you after you stop being interesting, don't you? You've been buying time since the beginning, and I know _whyyyy_ …"

His dark eyes gleamed.

"You're waiting for him to come and save you."

"No," John said, too quickly. "I'm not…"

Guilt rose in his throat, and he forced his face impassive, stony. Moran had been right: Sherlock's promise had been in the back of his mind since watching the footage of his escape on the news. Horrified as he'd been at Sherlock's brutality, he'd wondered if his visit had motivated it. After all, Sherlock had only taken the case on once he realised John might be in danger. And when that danger had realised itself, he'd done the impossible and escaped from the top-security hospital that had imprisoned him for so long…

John tried to compose himself when he caught sight of Moriarty's gleeful expression.

"You _are_ ," Moriarty said teasingly. "I bet that thought _twists_ at you, hoping for a serial killer to come rescue you. I still have links to that security footage, you know. I watched him rip out an orderly's throat with his teeth. Do you think that was for your sake?"

 John jerked against his bonds. "Stop it," he said shortly.

Moriarty's mouth stretched wide in satisfaction. "Having a morality crisis? How _adorable_."

"I'm not…" John paused, flexed his aching jaw. "I'm not the reason he killed that man."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Moriarty drawled. "Not that you'll be doing much sleeping anymore. Tell me about what he sent you."

John shook his head. "It was nothing. They were just birthday cards."

"Oh?" Moriarty pulled a face. "And what did he write in them?"

John's stomach crawled at the memory of those identical shell-blue cards, the way his world momentarily froze each year when that plain envelope with its neatly printed address block dropped through his letter box.

"He wrote different things," John said eventually. He didn't know why Moriarty was so interested. "That he was sorry he had hurt me, but he'd been forced to by circumstance. That he hadn't stopped thinking about me." John broke off, clenched and released his fists. "He never wrote much. Just a sentence."

Moriarty’s smile seemed frozen on his face. "Did you tell anyone he was trying to keep in contact with you?"

"No." At first, he hadn't wanted to cause any panic. As the years went by, there were fewer people he could tell anyway.

"Did you like getting his cards?"

"Of course not!" John retorted, defensive.

"You little liar," Moriarty leered. "You're a zombie, John. I looked into you before all this, and I have to say it was a fucking boring read after you retired. No friends, no family, nothing. I bet Sherlock's cards were something of a treat for you. An adrenaline rush.” He paused, considering John with his invasive scrutiny. John met his eyes, breathless and exposed, and Jim grinned. “He took your life, back then, and all you’ve been doing is waiting for him to finish the job. He’s the only reason you even let that stupid detective into your house. You want to get close to Sherlock.”

John shook his head, tensing against that familiar sense of being peeled open by someone’s gaze. Moriarty's eyelids dipped half-shut in satisfaction as he observed John's obvious discomfort.

"Nothing really gets to you anymore, does it John?” he goaded, drinking in John’s distress. “Nothing apart from him, and his threats, and his promises."

He was right, it hurt that he knew, without asking, thoughts so private and disturbing that John had never dared confess to anyone. He opened his mouth to refute Moriarty's poisonous words, but his jaw snapped shut with a click. He couldn't even bring himself to say such an obvious lie, not even in his own defence.

Moriarty interrupted his stuttered thoughts, placing his hands on either side of John's neck and leaning in. His breath was hot, and John pulled back, disgusted. Moriarty just sniggered. "Were you happy to see Inspector Lestrade on your doorstep, eager to pick your brain like in the good old days?" he asked, voice sweet. "He pretended he was your friend, didn't he? They _all_ did."

John scowled and turned away.

"Now, don't give me that look, pet," Moriarty tutted. He cupped John's face, thumbs digging painfully into his cheeks and forced his head back around.

John reluctantly met Moriarty's eyes and repressed a shiver. Moriarty was intensely focused on him, his black eyes staring unblinking, his mouth slightly open as he took shallow breaths.

"They know you," Moriarty said softly, his hands squeezing again around John’s neck, "and they knew all your hot buttons. They knew just how to manipulate you so you would volunteer to dangle yourself like some exciting little treat for a serial killer who'd tried to kill you. 'Go and speak to Sherlock Holmes,' they said, 'or more girls will die'. And you couldn't have that, could you? Not after all your other failures. Not after Rachael."

John stared, stricken, into Moriarty's leer. He had planned this? He’d known what they’d do, what everyone was thinking, he must have done, or how else had John ended up here?

Moriarty saw John sink in realisation, and dug into him deeper. "They selfishly hung that guilt on your shoulders,” he sneered. “I'm surprised you weren't flattened to the ground under the weight of it all."

Anger swelled, and John tried to jerk his head out of Moriarty's grip, but that just made the fingers clutch tighter. "I wasn't used," he snarled.

Moriarty just laughed in his face. "Johnny, sweetie, you were their _whore_."

John felt steel against his neck, but that was all the warning he got. Moriarty lunged in so fast that John could only gasp before thin cold lips sealed over his. The knife pressed in warning against John's throat to keep him in place as Moriarty's tongue wormed into his mouth, utterly unerotic, just a biting, slimy kiss that was nothing to do with desire and all to do with power. John wanted to vomit. He drew hard breaths in against Moriarty's cheek, back flattened against the chair, and felt Moriarty laugh into his mouth.

Then Moriarty pulled back with a sucking sound, lips wet with saliva. He raised his hand in a flash of steel and slashed John across the face.

John cried out in shock, a horizontal line of pain blooming over his cheekbone as blood spilled warm down his cheek. Moriarty let out a little moan at the sight of his handiwork. He grabbed John around the throat, forcing him to still, and lasciviously lapped at the wound. At the sting of the greedy tongue, John felt his endurance snap. He head-butted Moriarty, and the madman stumbled back.

"Oh dear heart," muttered Moriarty, straightening himself. His sharp face was ugly with hatred. "You really shouldn't have done that…"

He stalked forward like an animal, past John's line of sight, his hands sliding over the back of the chair as he circled John's struggling form, and then he _pushed_.

John yelped as gravity tilted and the walls whirled past him. He landed crashing on his back, head hitting the carpet hard and his vision momentarily blurring. The ceiling spiralled above him, and he heard his breaths coming in rushed gasps as if from someone else. The dark shape of Moriarty loomed over him, knife glinting in his hand like a threat.

Overwhelmed and dizzy, John turned his head to the side."You're pathetic," he said through gritted teeth, as calmly as possible. ~~~~

Moriarty's fingers clenched harder around his jaw. "Like I've never heard that before," he sneered, petting John's cheek and then pulling himself upright. He brushed a fussy hand over his suit, smoothing the fabric out. "If I'm pathetic, what does that make you?"

John found it difficult to meet those mad black eyes, but he forced himself to none-the-less. Moriarty scowled.

"Moran!" he yelled over his shoulder. There was a pause, then the sound of the door swinging open.

"Yes Boss?"

"I don't care if Holt is dying," Moriarty spat. "Get the doctor and the gurney up here now."

 

* * *

 

The rain poured from the sky as Sherlock arrived at the apartment complex. He didn't stop, careful not to draw attention to himself by acting out of the ordinary. Moriarty had no doubt hacked into all security cameras surrounding his fortress, and he'd have people watching the roads. It was just a question of where to move, letting the rain and darkness camouflage his approach.

Mycroft had sent him the plans of the building and surrounding streets, so Sherlock knew exactly where to go whilst staying invisible. But it was still dangerous. The apartment complex was Moriarty's base of operations. Most of the rooms were there for his agents to live in while they were working, and they'd be armed. So was Sherlock, but he'd do better not to raise any alarms.

It didn't matter. He could move quickly, kill silently.

John was in there somewhere. Sherlock scanned over the multi-storied building, eyes flitting over the windows, the yellow glow of lamplights. Right at the top, the light shone brightest. The penthouse, with its curtains flung wide open. No neighbour lived high enough to stare in.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, running through the blueprints that were seared into his mind…

 

* * *

 

As the symphony pouring from the speakers reached its crescendo, they dragged John, kicking and fighting, into the dining room.

In the exquisitely furnished room, with soft dark carpet, discreetly patterned walls, and mahogany furniture, John was forcibly held still by several men for Moriarty to force the gag back into his mouth. Grinning to himself, Moriarty pushed the gag hard. The fabric scratched up John's soft palate, making him cough and gag, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes as Moriarty assaulted his gag reflex. They wound the fabric tight, and John could barely breathe.

"I'm going to do such a good job on you," murmured Moriarty, skimming his thumb over John's bleeding cheek, and licking it clean with a conspicuous relish that made John feel like prey. “Suffer well for him, Johnny. You know how much he likes that.”

Sliding glass doors led to the kitchen, where an older man cowered in an ill-fitting chef whites. Moriarty snapped an order for him to get back to cooking, and he ducked out of view, bug-eyed.

"He's making the starter," Moriarty said to John, with a wink. “For our meal. You’ll be the main course, and I’m sure you’ll be delicious, pet.” He petted John’s hip. “Might save some for Sherlock, if he’s lucky. Anything you want me to make sure he gets his teeth around?”

A heavy door swung open, and one of Moriarty’s thugs wheeled a metal gurney with heavy-duty straps into the room, where it glinted menacingly in the low lighting. John moaned in fear as he was half-carried towards it, shaking his head from side to side, throwing himself against the grip of Moriarty's men. They spun him like a ragdoll, forced him thrashing and heaving down onto the cold metal.

His wrists stung as they were released from the handcuffs, but he only had a second of freedom before Moran leant over him and, calmly, like he'd done it enough times to have the movements engrained into muscle memory, pinned them down and bound them by his hips. His inscrutable gaze skimmed over John, their eyes meeting for a split second, but John could read no pity, nothing in his stern features.

Moriarty still babbled to himself. "I know Sherlock will be fuming that I've stolen his last victim, but I think even he will appreciate the… _artistry_ , of my vision, once he sees the result."

Indeed, he was very particular about how he wanted John positioned for the cameras, and spent quite a while ordering his henchmen about and having them drag the gurney just so.

In the end, John was stretched flat on his back on the cold metal table, strapped down tightly enough that he could do little but wriggle. His shirt and cardigan had been pushed aside, exposing him, his belly and panting chest. A doctor, anonymous in a green coverall and facemask, wheeled a halogen light into position over the table and flicked it on. John squeezed his eyes shut and dragged his head to the side, the white ring of light smearing across his vision

He recoiled when a hand slid down his side, fingers skimming under the edge of his shirt. "You look tasty," Moriarty said, voice startlingly close, and chuckled when John tried to squirm away.

The lamp was too bright, but John could eventually squint his eyes open. The blur of Moriarty was standing at his shoulder, one hand resting on the table, the other absently petting his chest, his stomach, in sickening little circles.

"Do you know why they call me the spider, Johnny?"

His hand came to a rest, very pointedly, over John's still tender scar.

"I'm the perfect predator. I sit at the centre of a web of crime that spans most of Europe, and I know every thread, every connection. A little tug here, a little quiver there, and I come-a-runnin'…"

Moriarty bent over him, leaning forward so his lips hovered by John's ear.

"You’ve no idea what you’ve gotten yourself involved in, do you." he whispered teasingly, as John fought to even his scattered breathing. "But that’s okay. You’ll find out soon enough."

The hand petting John's scar smoothed upwards with fingers spread wide, relishing the texture of John's skin, damp with sweat. He pressed his palm right over John's sternum, where he could no doubt feel the rabbit heartbeat that John had no way of controlling, and flashed his teeth as John tried to shrink away.

"The irony is," Moriarty murmured, "I was terrified of spiders. But Sherlock fixed me. He tied me down, much like I've just tied you down, and he helped me _see_."

Moriarty abruptly pulled away, leaving John a shaking mess on the table. John sniffed. He didn’t want to cry, but his eyes were stinging, threatening to spill.

"I loved him, John, but he broke me," Moriarty said darkly. "If he hadn't, I wouldn't be here now, wanting to do this to you."

When John turned his head and squinted, he could see Moriarty pondering over a tray of instruments that looked positively medieval. His heart jumped in his chest as Moriarty plucked out a surgical saw that was partially rusted. Or, and fear clotted John’s throat he realised, still covered with dried blood.

He should have let Moran shoot him. Moran, who stood ready for orders near the side of the room with his dead eyes flicking between his master and John - he'd seen this coming.

"It's Sherlock's fault," Moriarty declared, spinning around to point accusingly at him with the saw. "Just remember, John. _Sherlock_ is the reason I'm doing this to you."

_They're going to cut my chest open._

Some part of John's consciousness clipped shut, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

He woke to the sound of Moriarty's insane laughter. He was coughing, choking into the gag, an ammonia tang stinging sharply in his nose and the back of his throat. To John's embarrassment, his tears finally spilt as he realised there was no escaping this. He slumped back against the cold metal as the doctor sealed the smelling salts, his ears ringing with the noise of conversation.

He couldn't pick out what anyone was saying. Moriarty was gloating, but he couldn't make sense of the words. All he could do was lie there numbly, body aching and hurting, unable to speak and barely able to see.

He squinted past the horribly bright ring of light to see the shrouded doctor reach into the instrument tray and pick up the rib spreader, ratcheting the thing wide open with a loud grind of metal.

Suddenly, the music cut out and they were dropped into silent darkness. The power in the building had died.

John blinked uncertainly, trying to think past his vivid sense of déjà vu. There was a low hum, emergency generators thrumming to a start, and a second set of lights blinked on. They were close to the ground, dimmer and harsher, and cast the room in alien shades of cyan and blue.

 _No_ , John thought to himself, holding himself very still on the table. _It… it couldn't be…_

"Sherlock…" said Moriarty, in a low tone that approached reverence. His eyes were wide, shining black in the sharp lighting.

Confusion and bewilderment gave way to an overwhelming rush of gratitude.  Not even the familiar sick fear that accompanied his thoughts of Sherlock could wipe out that crush of relief: _He's here, he's going to save me, everything will be alright_.

Sherlock had done the impossible; escaped prison and tracked down a super-villain. Whether he was doing this for his own benefit, or for John's, he still had no way of knowing, but it didn't matter-- John could survive. If Sherlock could pull this off, John wouldn't die here. He'd bought John his time.

Moriarty took a deep breath and seemed to swell at his seams. "What are you waiting for?" he yelled, spittle flying from his lips. "Bring him to me!"

The room emptied in a stampede of feet.

Moriarty paused by John instead of following, an agitated look in his eyes as he neatened his suit cuffs. “Looks like we’re going to have to delay this,” he said, giving John’s bonds a critical once-over. “You rest here, pet. Don’t do anything exciting until the cameras come back on.”

He swept out, and John was left alone in the dining room.

No, John thought, casting his eyes towards the closed off kitchen. Not alone.

Through the frosted glass, he could see a large white shape huddled on the floor, partially lit by the emergency lighting. The chef was obviously an unwilling servant in this house, but Moriarty's absence didn't stir him to move. He just sat there, breathing in and out, as if in a trance.

John grasped that glimmer of hope. Instead of waiting for a serial killer to rescue him, a saner alternative had presented itself.

He thrashed until the gurney rattled, trying to attract the chef’s attention. It worked, because he heard the slide of the kitchen door, and John saw the chef peeking through the gap. His eyes were red-rimmed and baggy, and his skin was littered with cuts and bruises.

Keeping his eyes fixed on the chef, John pleaded through his gag, straining at his bonds. The fabric stuffed in his mouth reduced his pleas to incoherent mumbling, but the chef immediately understood.

"I'm sorry, I can't," he whispered. "I'm sorry…"

The chef's voice broke, and he turned away, weeping, shoulders shaking.

"He'll kill me," the chef sobbed. John believed it. "He'll kill my family..."

John struggled violently, pleaded into the gag until he captured the chef's attention again. The chef seemed conflicted. It took a long time, too long, for John to coax him over, but eventually the man crossed the room and removed John's gag.

"I'm sorry," he kept whispering as he hovered over John, in deep fear of being overheard, despite the power cut blocking all surveillance. "He'll kill me if I let you go."

John worked his sore jaw, and tilted his head so he could look the chef in the eye. "I'm John," he said quietly. "What's your name?"

"Angelo…" said the chef.

"What do you think he's going to do when this is all over, Angelo?" John kept his voice low, in case the frightened man tried to gag him again to keep him quiet. "I'm the last victim. He won't need a chef after he's done with me."

"I don't know," Angelo whispered, wringing his hands, clearly distressed. How many people had he cooked for Moriarty? "I don't know what to do…"

John forced aside his urge to panic and schooled his features into his best authoritative look. "I used to be a cop," he said calmly. "Untie me, Angelo, and I'll get us both out of here."

The man's face crumpled. "He's got my family," he whispered, voice threatening to break again.

"I'll help your family," John promised. "Angelo, _please_."

John held back his own anxiety and didn’t hurry him, giving the man time to think. "Okay," Angelo said eventually. He cast his eyes around nervously. "I'm going to have a look first and see if there are any guards around."

John nodded, and then froze as Angelo picked up the gag again.

Angelo seemed to recognise the horror in John's expression, because he softened in sympathy. "I'm sorry," he mouthed. "Just in case he comes back."

"It's okay," John said weakly, and he opened his mouth to accept the gag. Angelo tied it carefully, loosely enough that he could push it out with his tongue if he wanted to, and then he snuck past John and out the door.

He was gone for quite a while.

Staring up at the ceiling, John lay there in maddening silence as the seconds ticked by, growing fear gnawing at his stomach. Had his one possible ally run off, leaving him gagged and strapped to the gurney for Moriarty’s return? Had he gotten shot by one of Moriarty’s over-eager employees?

But no, just as John’s desperation reached nauseating levels, the chef bustled back into the room and unknotted John's gag.

"Thank you," said John, the moment his mouth was free. Angelo nodded at him and started to work at the straps around John's body, tugging them open one by one. He was shaking terribly, still wearing the chef's hat askew on his head. It wobbled as he stared wildly around the room, apparently unnerved by the shadows cast by the odd blue lighting. John wondered if Moriarty had kept him on any sort of drug, to control him.

"I couldn't see anyone," Angelo said in a hushed voice, unclasping the last of the straps, "but I didn't want to go too far."

John carefully sat up on the metal table, his abused body struggling to hold him upright. He’d be alright soon enough "That's okay," he replied, pulling his ripped shirt closed and buttoning his cardigan over it. "Let's look around."

Angelo helped him down from the table, catching him when John's legs momentarily gave out. He looked to John for guidance, as if expecting him to have some sort of plan. John did his best to appear calm, for his sake.

They left the dining room, so John could get a grip on his bearings. Blue lights lined the skirting boards, casting their shaking shadows across the ceiling in swooping lines. The effect was dizzying, and terrifying. The low lights cast deep shadows at weird angles, cloaking areas in darkness where anyone could be hiding.

John squeezed his fist, wishing for his gun.

Their journey was slow and cautious. Upon reaching a corner, John peeked his head around, slowly, and his heart jumped to his throat when he saw the back of one of Moriarty's men, casually leaning his shoulder against the wall with a handgun strapped to his belt. John flung out an arm to stop Angelo from coming any further forward, and tilted his head back the way they came. This wasn't the way out.

They snuck into the lounge next. The heavy wooden chair still lay on its back, where Moriarty had shoved him down like he was some sort of toy. John felt bile rise in his throat, and hurried down another corridor. They both started when distant gunshots echoed through the halls, and Angelo let out a terrified exhale.

"Come on," John urged him. The chef shrank back against the wall in gibbering panic. "We need to keep looking --"

He was cut off by the sound of a gunshot, far too close. The man who'd been guarding the hallway? Had he shot Sherlock, or had Sherlock…

 "Oh god!" cried Angelo, leaping to his feet.

"Angelo, no!" John hissed, grabbing for a flailing arm, but Angelo pushed him out of the way, blinded by fear, and tore off down the corridor, shouting his pleas for forgiveness over and over.

John fought his panic down. He needed to hide, Angelo might tell them where he’d run off to, or they’d come looking in the direction he came from. The nearest room was a bare place filled with dead computers, no space to hide in, so John scrambled across the hall and slipped into a dark, carpeted room.

It was lit by one emergency light right at the door so most of the large room was shrouded in darkness. John's eyes adjusted quickly, the blue light picking out the luxurious king-sized bed with thick quilts and masses of pillows, expensive furnishings, the hard edge of a laptop on the bedside table.

John was startled when Angelo's voice carried sharply down the corridor. "I'm sorry!" he pleaded. "I didn't mean to leave --"

A gunshot split through the quiet air, followed by dead silence.

John rushed noiselessly forward on the thick carpet, slipping into a tall wooden wardrobe at the side of the room and letting the door clip shut behind him. The darkness was claustrophobic. Heavy fabric, coats and suits, hung around him, some in plastic casing from the drycleaners, and he had to remain very still on his knees so they didn't crackle.

He heard muted footsteps across carpeted floors, a slow, observant pace, and raised his hand to his mouth to snuff out his noisy breaths. If he stretched, slightly, he could peer through the keyhole into the dimly lit room.

The footsteps passed steadily down the corridor, and paused outside the bedroom. John heard a creak, and the door slowly swung open.

Sherlock Holmes swept in, and John forgot to breathe.

He was dressed in all black, the expensive suit from his trial that was a marked contrast from his prison uniform, slightly damp from the rain outside. The emergency lighting caught the edges of a handgun that Sherlock held as he swiftly scanned the room in that machine-like way of his, lips slightly parted in anticipation, his eyes sharp. His pale stare passed right over the closet without pausing, sparking in the blue light.

John's heart raced, but he kept himself still, his limbs aching and his skin itchy with sweat. Through the keyhole, he watched Sherlock pace across the room, sifting through items on top of the dresser, flipping through the drawers of the bedside table, his body thrumming with energy. He snatched something small in his palm, and snapped up straight, apparently having found what he had come for.

But instead of leaving, he headed straight towards the closet.

John clutched his hand tighter around his mouth and froze, like a hunted animal, but Sherlock didn't fling the door open. He slammed his hand onto it, keeping the door shut, before John’s only light source was cut out. There was a clunk.

The slide of a bolt…

_He's locked the door._

John’s mind whirled in confusion, hardly sure what to think, when the light came back. Sherlock's searching eye abruptly appeared at the keyhole and latched onto him. John stuttered a gasp and fell against the back wall of the closet, hands clambering at the floor so he wouldn’t tip over.

Sherlock just watched him with bated breath, like if he blinked, John would vanish. John heard his hands come up to rest against the wood, and the light dimmed dramatically as Sherlock leant in closer, the eye flicking over his body, then narrowing.

“He hurt you,” Sherlock breathed, before hissing in an angry exhale through gritted teeth.

"Sherlock," John blurted out instinctively, the name spilling hopefully from his lips without him meaning to. He covered his mouth, shocked at himself.

Sherlock's eye crinkled slightly at the edges. He was smiling. "You stay there," he whispered through the keyhole. "I'll be right back."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for The Loss of Flesh and Soul](https://archiveofourown.org/works/739429) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)




End file.
